Christmas Fuzz
by Gildir
Summary: December 2006: Three people are on their way to Sandford for Christmas: Danny Butterman, Michael "Lurch" Armstrong, and a man with a red suit and a white beard. Rated T for immaturity, violence, and general "Hot Fuzz"-ness. Now complete.
1. Three Releases

**Christmas Fuzz**

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of _Hot Fuzz_ and the film's epilogue. I realize that Jadwin has already written a story about the same Christmas, which I have not read so as not to be influenced by it. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of _Hot Fuzz_.

**Part One: Three Releases**

"I think it's probably one of the most fun jobs you could ever have. You get to do everything… Where else do you get to deliver babies, save somebody, arrest somebody, fight somebody, do all these different things?"

David Martin, Arlington Police Department, Arlington, MA  
_The Arlington Advocate_, December 6, 2007

**I. Mended Cop**

**Flint House**

**Goring-on-Thames, Oxfordshire, England**

**20th December 2006, 0840 hrs**

"Well, this is it," the discharge clerk said.

The police officer stood in the discharge office of Flint House, the physical rehab facility where he had spent the last three months after being seriously wounded in the line of duty and spending four months in hospital. He was not the slightest bit unhappy to be going home. For one thing, although his room had Freeview TV, the sergeant from Leeds in the next room had borrowed his portable DVD player and never returned it. It had been weeks since he had seen a really good action movie.

The clerk behind the desk had paperwork for him to sign, as well as some of the belongings that had been on him when he was brought here from the hospital.

"One Casio analogue watch, broken," the clerk said. "Looks like it was caught in an explosion."

"Yeah, it was," the police officer said cheerfully.

The clerk gave him a dirty look.

"One unused packet of hospital ketchup… one empty packet."

"Hey, I always like to have some ketchup on me."

"One packet of Hog Lumps –"

"That's not mine. It must be someone's who looks like me."

**0850 hrs**

Papers signed, ketchup packets safely back in his pocket, the police officer slowly walked out through the arched doorway of Flint House. He deeply inhaled the bracing December air, and then looked up the curved drive.

Punctual to the minute, a gleaming new panda car was approaching the pick-up area. It was small, but its paintwork displayed striking blue-and-yellow Battenburg markings. The newly released police officer judged the car to be less cool than the one Gene Hackman commandeered in _The French Connection_, but cooler than Dan Aykroyd's in _Dragnet_. The roof of the car was emblazoned with the code letters "HF".

The car stopped. A man in the uniform of a Chief Inspector got out of the driver's side. He was two and a half inches taller than the officer awaiting him, and also much thinner and more physically fit. His short blond hair was hidden by his uniform cap. For a moment he stood looking at the younger, chubbier policeman, and then held out his arms towards him.

Constable Danny Butterman hugged Chief Inspector Nicholas Angel of the Sandford Police Service, his mentor, his hero, his best friend.

**0852 hrs**

Inside the car, Paul McCartney was singing on the radio about how the moon was right, the spirit was up, how they were there tonight and that was enough. Nine months earlier, Nicholas Angel would not have been likely to be listening to anything while driving other than police radio chatter. But he had loosened up a lot this past year. Besides, he was off-duty.

"Good thing the money I have to pay in to Flint House was finally put to some use."

"I'm sorry, Danny?" Nicholas said, distracted by a cyclist running the red light where they had stopped. _This isn't your jurisdiction_, he reminded himself, fighting the urge to give the woman a citation.

"Yeah. I mean, it cut into my DVD budget a bit. And I had to replace my copy of _Return of the King_ when I dropped a Cornetto on it."

Nicholas felt himself smile inside as he drove forward again.

"So, everyone getting ready for Christmas, then?"

"Yes, pretty much. I believe the new vicar at the church is bringing in about twenty charity collectors to request donations in the village centre for the less fortunate."

"The midnight service is always nice," Danny said. "You should go. It's just a shame Sandford doesn't have a cathedral anymore."

"Sandford once had a cathedral?"

"Yeah, centuries back. But it blew up accidentally."

Nicholas was sceptical about the accuracy of this, but said nothing. They were now passing through countryside dotted with small farmhouses. Sad-eyed cows stared at the car as it sped past. Danny began to hum a tune, at first softly, then louder and louder. Soon he was singing aloud, but with nonsense syllables rather than words.

"Constable Butterman, might I ask what it is that you're singing?"

"The _Ode to Joy_, by that deaf German."

_Just as long as you don't make me deaf singing it_, Nicholas thought. "Constable," he said aloud, "the public might consider it unprofessional if a police officer was heard singing a hymn in a disrespectful way."

"I didn't mean to be disrespectful. I was just enjoying the music."

Danny sounded hurt. Nicholas glanced over at him, feeling a pang of guilt. They were passing through a small village, and Danny was staring out the window at a cinema with a teaser poster outside for _The Bourne Ultimatum_.

"Anyway," Danny said when they were outside the village, "I was just singin' it. You know, like in that scene in _Jaws_."

"What scene in _Jaws_?"

"The scene where Robert Shaw is singing the _Ode to Joy_ really loudly."

"I've seen _Jaws_, and I don't remember that scene."

"It's on the DVD. It's a deleted scene."

"Danny, deleted scenes are not a legitimate part of a movie. The director takes them out for a reason."

"Yeah, I know." Danny fell silent for a moment, a bit crestfallen. Then, as a new subject of conversation occurred to him, he perked up. "So, you got your office set up yet?"

"No, they're still plastering it. I'm out in the alleyway, like I was at first at the old station."

"Shame. So, what's been goin' on in Sandford? Any heavy stuff go down while I was away?"

"Well, let's see," Nicholas said, casting his mind back over the past few days. "James M. Carter was arrested for sexual assault and lewd and lascivious behaviour near the duck pond on Monday."

"Marcus Carter's big brother?" Danny asked, furrowing his brow. "He's an M.P. now, inn' he?"

"Yes, he is. He's checking himself into a mental hospital in London – today, I believe."

"Why's he doin' that? He should feel right at home in the House of Commons."

"Probably," Nicholas said, manoeuvring the car around a slow truck.

"Who made the collar?"

"PC Walker and Saxon," Nicholas answered. Bob Walker, the most senior member of the Sandford Police Service, and his canine partner had happened upon the scene during one of their ambling patrols around the village. "The suspect attempted to escape, but Saxon pursued and cornered him. When PC Walker caught up to them, Carter attempted to give a false name, but Bob recognized him. Carter said they were ruining his life by arresting him."

"Another politician gone to the dogs," Danny said sadly.

"And the pet shop was robbed of forty birds on Tuesday. No arrest yet."

"Any clues?"

"Only a few feathers."

Danny gave Nicholas a serious look.

"The swan hasn't escaped again, has he?" Danny asked.

"Not that I know of."

"Good. I wouldn't want to go after that honker again."

This time Nicholas permitted himself a slight smile.

"Can't wait to get home and watch _Die 'ard_. Hey, can I come in to work tomorrow?"

Nicholas glanced at his friend with concern.

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Don't worry. I feel strong enough to carry a pregnant woman up a flight of stairs."

**II. Triple Mind**

**Gloucester Prison**

**Gloucester, England**

**20th December 2006, 1005 hrs**

Dr. Robert Clark was a psychiatrist at Gloucester Prison. His choice of career specialisation was unfortunate, perhaps, given that he had always been a somewhat nervous person. The prisoner to whom he was speaking at the moment made him even more nervous than usual.

"Mr. Armstrong," Dr. Clark said, "the court has reviewed your psychological evaluation and determined that you are unfit to stand trial."

The extremely tall, bald man standing in front of him listened with an expression of mild interest. He made no remark expressing either relief or concern.

"You are aware that you were charged with attempted murder of a police officer, assault and battery on a police officer, and conspiracy to commit murder?"

"Yarp," the tall man said.

"These charges have now been dismissed. Ordinarily, you would be transferred to a mental facility. However…"

Dr. Clark looked embarrassed.

"Mr. Armstrong," he said, "it seems clear to me that you could benefit from further assistance with your personality issues. However, the state of governmental mental – excuse me – _government mental_ health funding is such that it's not possible for us to help you at public expense. We have found no evidence that you continue to pose a public danger, now that you are no longer under the influence of…"

The psychiatrist checked the papers in front of him for the name.

"…Mr. Simon Skinner."

The tall man looked sadly down at the floor.

"We are aware that you have been struggling with multiple personality disorder, but all indications are that you have this issue largely under control. Would you agree with that assessment?"

"Yarp," the tall man said brightly, in the voice of a young girl.

Dr. Clark stared at him for a moment, and then looked down at his papers again.

"Under the circumstances, it appears that we have no choice but to release you. Do you understand this decision?"

"Yarp," the prisoner replied, in a deep voice again.

"Do you wish to appeal this decision?"

"Narp."

"Are you able to make your own way home from here?"

"Yarp."

**1148 hrs**

Michael Armstrong, known to acquaintances as "Lurch", stood outside Gloucester Prison, an ugly modern building. The £23.07 he had had on him when he was arrested was back in his pocket. Prisoners who had received Christmas furloughs were being picked up by family members, exchanging strained, difficult greetings with them. No one whom Michael knew was there to pick him up.

A cab approached the front entrance, summoned by the warden at the front desk. It stopped in front of Michael. He climbed in.

"Where can I take you, guv?" the cabby asked.

Michael was always nervous around people he didn't know, although he usually managed to hide it by remaining silent. He would let his Mum deal with the cabby. Sure enough, Mum reached over the seat and handed the driver a slip of paper on which she had jotted their destination while they were waiting. (Michael couldn't write.)

"Sandford," the cabby said. "You want me to drive you all the way to Sandford?"

"Yarp," Michael said.

"It'll cost you a few pounds."

"Yarp," his Mum said.

"Going home for Christmas, are we?"

"Yarp," his sister said.

The cab, with its single passenger, drove away.

**III. Evil Santa**

**Shoreditch Psychiatric Institute for Therapeutic Services**

**London, England**

**20th December 2006, 1332 hrs**

Approximately one hundred miles to the east, another psychiatrist was speaking with another patient. Dr. Helen Hardwicke, a small blonde woman, smiled pleasantly at the man sitting before her.

"Mr. Bass, the latest reports from your therapists are excellent. You have made phenomenal progress over the past year."

"Thank you," Albert Bass said modestly. He was a short, chubby man, with thick yet muscular legs and a round head. His somewhat intense and moody eyes at present had a relieved look as he heard the good news he was being given.

"Although you were initially admitted for treatment after assaulting a police officer, you have shown no violent tendencies since then. You said at the time that you 'felt the need to inflict a wound'?"

"That's right. I don't feel that need any more, not since I spoke to the doctors here about my childhood."

"And you also seem to have freed yourself from the delusion that you're really Father Christmas."

"Of course I'm not Father Christmas! I don't have a big white beard!"

Dr. Hardwicke laughed.

"I understand, though, that there's something still troubling you?" she asked.

"Yeah. I've developed a case of trichotillomania while I've been in here."

"Hair-pulling can be a difficult condition to deal with," the doctor said sympathetically. "I imagine that that's the cause of the bald spot on your head?"

Albert Bass looked up sharply at Dr. Hardwicke.

"On my head? Oh, no, ma'am. I never pull out hairs from my _head_."

There was a brief, awkward silence.

"Riiight," the psychiatrist said. "Well, once you're discharged, you can see someone else about that, but it's certainly not serious enough to keep you here. How about it? Do you agree with us that you're ready to go home?"

"I certainly do," Albert said. "Do you have the reindeer hitched up to my sleigh?"

Dr. Hardwicke was startled for a moment. Then she laughed again.

"Your willingness to joke about your own delusion proves that you've overcome it," she said. "You're free to go."

**1401 hrs**

As Albert Bass emerged from the lift into the lobby of the Shoreditch Psychiatric Institute, a short man with a scraggly grey beard came through the front entrance. He looked harried and nervous. An attractive woman in a white lab coat passed him, and he grinned at her.

"Oh, baby, you are so beautiful," he said to her. "Your body is so perfect."

The woman looked angry, but kept walking. The short man pursued her and reached out as though to grab her breast. Albert, who was a couple of inches taller than the other man, intercepted him and grabbed his hand.

"Were you thinking of molesting this young lady?" he asked sternly. "That's a naughty thing to do, isn't it?"

The woman, startled, nodded her thanks to Albert and continued toward the lifts. The shorter man winced as Albert failed to release his hand.

"You don't understand," he whimpered. "I'm a Member of Parliament. I'm checking myself in here because I can't control myself around women."

"Oh, really?" Albert asked mockingly. "Are you suffering from clinical depression? Sex addiction? Obsessive-compulsive disorder?"

"My mother just died," the other man whined.

Albert smiled and let go of his hand.

"That explains everything, then," Albert said. "But you'd better watch out. You've been a naughty little boy, and you know what happens to naughty little boys, don't you? They get coal down their chimneys."

He gave the shorter man his most threatening look, and then turned to walk away.

"Hey, wait a minute!" the M.P. shouted angrily after him. "What were you in here for, anyway?"

Albert turned back for a moment and smiled again.

"You might call it… polar disorder," he said.

He walked quickly out the door, leaving a no-doubt puzzled pervert behind him. Once outside, he breathed deeply of the crisp London air.

It was nearly Christmas. He had work to do.

**1603 hrs**

Two hours later, Albert Bass was sat in front of a computer terminal at his local public library, having discovered that the Internet service to his flat had been cut off during his long absence. The news at home wasn't all bad, though. He had found a spare red suit in his closet, still freshly laundered and ready to go. He could buy another wig and false beard at any costume shop.

Around him now sat students and eccentrics playing solitaire, bidding on eBay for useless junk, or posting online their fevered imaginings about the characters in their favourite movies and television programmes.

_Nitwits and numbskulls, all of them_, Albert thought. _They all deserve a lump of coal this Christmas. But I have a bigger fish to fry._

He paused for a moment with his fingers over the keyboard, recalling the name of the sanctimonious police constable he had stabbed in the hand a year earlier. The one who, blood still gushing from his palm, had slapped the handcuffs on him. The one who had sent him to the funny farm for twelve months.

"I hope you feel better, Mr. Bass," the copper had said as he was loaded into the police van. "Perhaps you will be able to receive help now with whatever's troubling you."

The name came back to him. He Googled "Nick Angel".

At first he was disappointed. The search engine found several references on IMDb and elsewhere to a "Nick Angel" who worked in the movie industry, the Music Supervisor on _Zombies Party_ and the forthcoming _Blue Fury_. Unless he had made a major career transition in the last year, this was not the "Nick Angel" he was looking for.

Then it occurred to him to search for the name "Nicholas Angel" instead. He immediately hit pay dirt.

The newspaper headline from May read, "Hero Cop Single-Handedly Saves Village – Partner Gravely Wounded". The story told of a crisis in the Gloucestershire village of Sandford, where the local Neighbourhood Watch Alliance had proved to be a criminal conspiracy aimed at the elimination of "undesirable elements" from the town by any means necessary. Sergeant Nicholas Angel, formerly of London's Metropolitan Police – it seemed he had been promoted when he was transferred – had exposed the group and apprehended its members, including the then-Chief Inspector of the Sandford Police, Frank Butterman, and the manager of the local supermarket, Simon Skinner. However, events had culminated in the destruction of the Sandford police station in a massive explosion. Angel's partner, Daniel Butterman (the corrupt chief's son, apparently), had been seriously wounded by a shotgun blast. Glancing quickly through multiple news reports, Albert could find no indication of whether the younger Butterman had survived his injuries. It scarcely mattered, of course.

Further down the list of search results Albert found a more recent article from the _Sandford Citizen_, reporting Sergeant Angel's promotion to Chief Inspector as a replacement for Butterman, who was in a maximum-security prison awaiting trial on multiple charges.

Albert Bass leaned forward toward the computer screen and whispered to the image of Chief Inspector Angel surrounded by his colleagues.

"Two promotions in one year – not the presents a naughty boy like you deserves. You put Santa Claus in the loony bin – that's a big no-no. And do you know what happens to little boys as bad as you are?"

He leaned even further forward, murmuring his last words with his lips nearly touching the screen.

"I feel the need," he said, "to inflict a wound."

END OF PART ONE


	2. Garden Girl

**Christmas Fuzz**

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of _Hot Fuzz_ and the film's epilogue. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of _Hot Fuzz_.

**Part Two: Garden Girl**

"Police departments give their officers personality tests to make sure they are deliberately assigned a partner who is their total opposite."

"Things You Would Never Know without the Movies"  
E-mail list reprinted in _Ebert's Bigger Little Movie Glossary_ – original source unknown

**I. Weary World**

**Sandford, Gloucestershire, England**

**20****th**** December 2006, 2146 hrs**

As the closing credits of _Die Hard_ rolled up his TV screen, Danny Butterman leaned back and whistled.

"Great, wasn't it?" he said to Nicholas Angel, who was sat next to him on the sofa.

"If you like that sort of thing," Nicholas said. "Fortunately, I'm starting to."

Danny clapped his hands like a little kid.

"Brilliant, man," he said. "Wasn't it somethin' how Bruce Willis walked barefoot across all that broken glass? Of course, you'll tell me he'll have to fill out medical paperwork on all those cuts to his feet. And they don't have a National Health Service in America…"

Nicholas listened abstractedly, concentrating on the sound and not the words. Danny glanced over at him curiously.

"Hey, Chief," he said. "You're a million miles away. Was what I was saying that boring? Or do you just love the sound of my voice?"

_I was afraid I'd never hear it again__._

That was what Nicholas wanted to say. Instead, he said: "It's late. I should get going."

**2220 hrs**

As Nicholas entered the cottage on Spencer Hill to which he had finally moved a couple of months before, his police walkie-talkie, which he had left on his coffee table, began to beep. Somewhat concerned, Nicholas picked it up. Was Sergeant Turner calling to report something wrong at the station?

"Chief Inspector Angel here. Over," he said, activating the walkie-talkie.

"It's me, Nicholas," Danny's voice said.

"Yes, Danny?"

"So, you're back home?"

"Yes, Danny. I was just going to get ready for bed."

"That's good. I can't sleep. Feels a bit strange to be back home, y'know."

Nicholas simultaneously sighed with exasperation and frowned with concern.

"Just lie back, Danny. Close your eyes and think of _Die Hard_," he said in an attempt at a soothing tone.

"Yeah. What a great movie, huh?" Danny said enthusiastically.

"One of the best I've seen, Danny."

"You really think so?" Danny asked. Nicholas could tell he had sat up in bed in his excitement at Nicholas' approval of one of his favourite films.

"Whatever gets you to sleep, Constable. If you don't get at least six hours sleep your first night back, I won't approve your going back on duty tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know."

There was a long pause. Just as Nicholas thought Danny had fallen asleep holding the walkie-talkie, he spoke again.

"Nicholas?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think you could tell me a story? Somethin' about when you were in the Met?"

Nicholas sighed again, crinkling his forehead inwards and squeezing his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Some other time, Danny. Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

"Just keep your eyes closed, even if you can't fall asleep."

"All right. 'Night, Nicholas."

"'Night, partner."

Nicholas set the walkie-talkie back down on the table. He was so tired himself that he could barely get his clothes off before tumbling into bed, and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

**II. Sweet Lullaby**

**2301 hrs**

Michael Armstrong had returned to his flat on Summer Street with various groceries he had purchased at the smaller shops on the High Street. He felt shy about showing himself at Somerfield's again before tomorrow, when, Mum said, he would have to try and get his trolley-boy job back. Since the accident ten years ago his Mum and his sister Karen hadn't been able to work, so he had been supporting them by working at the supermarket. That was how he had gotten to know the Bad Man.

There was an Indian woman working now behind the counter of what had been Annette Roper's shop, its window, like those of all the other shops, cheerfully decorated for Christmas. As Michael had walked up and down the High Street, grocery bags in his arms, he had involuntarily looked for many familiar faces, and seen none of them. He had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Blower, the solicitor's wife, but she had scowled at him and hurried to her car.

Michael knew that Annette Roper and many of the other people he had known in the village were now in gaol, still in big trouble for having helped the Bad Man. Still others he would never see again, unless he brought them flowers in the churchyard.

Mum said that people would understand that Michael was under the influence of Mr. Skinner (_she_ used the Bad Man's name freely – _he_ was still afraid to) when he did those horrible things. She said that people had short memories, anyway, and that he would quickly make new friends. Sandford would seem like home again, just as it had done all his life.

Michael wasn't so sure, and he was scared. What if people thought he should still be in gaol? What if they asked why he had come back, when the others hadn't? What if they tried to lock him away again?

Mum had listened patiently to all his fears while she made a late meal – pot roast and green beans. After the three of them ate, Mum had washed the dishes and Michael and Karen dried them. Then Mum had helped Michael change into his light blue pyjamas. (Michael wished he could still wear his old Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas, but they were a little too small.)

Now Michael was lying in bed, his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling shakily as he tried to get over the strangeness of being back in his own room after all these months.

"Can't get to sleep?" his Mum asked. Like Michael and Karen, she was a bit shy around people outside the family, but spoke more easily when the three of them were alone.

"Narp," Michael answered, opening his eyes.

"Shall we sing you to sleep?" Karen asked.

"Yarp."

Mum and Karen began to sing together:

"O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie…"

While it was only five days from Christmas now, in fact Mum and Karen used this song as a lullaby all the year round. It always filled Michael with peace and contentment, no matter how worried or scared he was. Michael closed his eyes again and relaxed, a gentle smile on his face as he listened to the voices of the two people he loved most in the world. Before the first verse of the carol was over, Michael was fast asleep, snoring loudly.

**III. Blessed Morn**

**21****st**** December 2006, 0801 hrs**

The first person Danny Butterman saw when he walked into the half-rebuilt Sandford police station the next morning was Sergeant Turner – the one who never combed his hair. His better-groomed twin brother had gone off duty at seven that morning.

"Morning, Constable," Sergeant Turner said, smiling. "Nice to have you back."

"Morning, Sergeant," Danny said, nodding. "Chief in yet?"

"Came in 'alf an hour early. Out in 'is _office_, if you can call it that."

Danny found Chief Inspector Angel in the alleyway beside the unfinished building, sitting on a wooden chair behind a school desk. He was frowning at piles of paperwork in front of him.

"Good job it isn't raining or snowing, innit?" Danny said.

"Good morning, Danny. I'm just going over the permits for the charity collectors Reverend Stewart is bringing into the village. And there are forms to fill in about the reconstruction funding."

"Work's still not finished, I see," Danny said, nodding at the scaffolding behind the building.

"No, it isn't. Fortunately, we had help obtaining funding from the Prime Minister. He's trying to increase his popularity in his last months in office, and due to the publicity about the NWA crisis, he thinks helping Sandford is a good way to go about it."

"Good for him," Danny said. "Better than doing something desperate, like changin' religions or something. So, I guess the station is taking longer to put back together than I did?"

Nicholas smiled, his eyes fleetingly crinkled with an emotion deeper than amusement.

"I could use some assistance with this paperwork, Constable," he said.

"Glad to help, Chief," Danny said, pulling a half-upholstered chair over to the desk from the side of the alley. "By the way, any progress on the bird robbery?"

"Not yet. We sent a bulletin to the police services in surrounding villages, asking them to keep an eagle eye out for the stolen property."

Danny glanced at Nicholas in surprise, but the Chief Inspector was successfully keeping a straight face.

"Forty birds," Danny said pensively. "Whoever stole 'em must be raven mad."

Nicholas burst out laughing, in a way which had once been highly uncharacteristic of him.

"I'm glad you're back, Danny."

"What? Did I say somethin' funny?"

Nicholas laughed even harder.

**1101 hrs**

After nearly three hours of forms and permits, Nicholas agreed with Danny that it was time for a coffee break. He had only another hour in which to take one, anyway. Although Nicholas had changed somewhat over his eight months in Sandford, he still rigidly adhered to his long-time "no-caffeine-after-midday" rule.

"So, who d'you fink will be the new PM?" Danny asked as they poured themselves coffee from the urn in the central area of the police station.

"Whoever the Labour Party elects as their new leader, I suppose," Nicholas said, frowning at an order form for Christmas party decorations lying next to the fax machine.

"Vawt Sax'n!" suggested PC Bob Walker, the most senior member of the Sandford Police Service. He was sitting in a chair in a sunny window; his partner, the police dog Saxon, was squatting next to him.

"He says 'Vote Saxon'," Danny translated for Nicholas' benefit.

"Yes, I know," Nicholas said. "I've gotten rather better at understanding the local dialect while you were away."

Danny looked slightly disappointed, as though concerned that he would now be useful to Nicholas in one less way. Before Nicholas could say something else, Detective Sergeant Wainwright and Detective Constable Cartwright, who together constituted the Sandford Police's CID, entered the room.

"Hark! Inspector Angel sings," Cartwright, the younger of the two men, said cheerfully.

"Angel we have heard on high," Wainwright added. "What's up, Chief?"

"The usual," Nicholas said. "Paperwork and more paperwork."

"And Angel's bending near the earth, to fill in forms untold," Cartwright intoned.

Nicholas winced. If his experiences upon first arriving in Sandford were to be looked upon as an "action movie" (as he knew Danny regarded them), then part of his own "character development" had been his increased acceptance of the perpetual teasing that went on between the members of the Sandford Police Service. Even so, these continual seasonal jokes about his name had grown hard to take over the last few weeks. Still, he was fairly certain it was all kindly meant nowadays, and Danny seemed to agree.

"What's up, Andys?" Danny said to Wainwright and Cartwright (who were both named Andrew). "Long time no see."

"Daniel! How can we miss you if you won't go away?" Cartwright asked.

"Seriously, good to see you," Wainwright said. "I never thought I'd say this, but things were a bit dull without you."

"So, are you two working the pet shop case?" Danny asked.

"We're hot on the trail," Cartwright said.

"And do you have any leads to follow up?" Nicholas asked.

"One or two," Wainwright said slowly. "Well – one, really. Well – not a lead, as such, but we thought we would drop in to Flapper's and ask the girls there if they know anything about the case."

"Contrary to popular belief, Detectives, every police investigation does not necessarily require a visit to a strip club," Nicholas said sternly. "I suggest that the two of you figure out at least one useful thing to do every day for the next seven days and write them on your wall planner."

"That'll be easy," Cartwright said. "There's loads of Christmas shopping we haven't done yet."

"I think the Chief means something that'll advance the investigation," Danny said.

"Oh, don't piss us off, Danny," Wainwright groaned.

"Thank you for reminding me, Detective," Nicholas said. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you."

He crossed to the large wooden receptacle that bore the sign, "Swear Box – All Proceeds to the Church Roof."

"As you know, Andys, I reinstituted the swear box, despite its status as a reminder of the _ancien régime_ –"

"Oh, he speaks French, too," Cartwright said, rolling his eyes.

"And Chinese," Danny chimed in.

"– because the roof of the church genuinely is in urgent need of repair," Nicholas finished, ignoring the interruption. "But the box is still half-empty. I have been pleasantly surprised by our officers' decreased use of profanity recently, but at the same time I think we need to give the church a little more help with their structural work. Therefore, I've added another word to the list on the box."

Nicholas indicated the word "P*SS", which now appeared in his own neat printing at the top of the list.

"Every use of the offensive four-letter term for liquid human waste will cost 1p, which I think is an appropriate amount," Nicholas said.

The two Andys sniggered.

"That'll really piss off Sergeant Fisher," Danny mused. "He uses that word all the time."

Nicholas instantly pulled a penny out of his pocket and dropped it into the slot of the swear box.

"Thanks, Chief," Danny said.

"No problem," Nicholas replied.

"That's hardly fair, is it?" Wainwright objected.

"You're payin' for him just 'cause he's your pet officer," Cartwright added.

"He's not a dog," Nicholas retorted, glancing over at Danny. He had strolled over to the window where PC Walker was sitting with Saxon and squatted down so his eyes were almost level with those of the police dog.

"Hey, Saxon. What trouble've you been getting into while I was away, man?" Danny asked.

"Bitches," Bob Walker mumbled, smiling fondly at his two junior officers.

"Yeah, boy," Danny said, chuckling.

"Besides," Nicholas said, turning hastily back to the Andys, "I'm not the only one who does it. You two pay each other's fines all the time."

"That's different," Wainwright said, cocking an eyebrow at Cartwright. "We've known each other longer."

_And did he ever get shot saving your life?_

Nicholas did not say that. Instead, he asked, "By the way, where is Sergeant Fisher? I can't follow what everyone's doing from my present office."

"Doris said he was investigating the pagodas behind the new Vietnamese restaurant in town," Wainwright said.

"Investigating them?" Nicholas asked. "Was there any report of trouble there?"

"No," Cartwright said. "He just hadn't looked at them yet."

Danny straightened up from his conversation with Saxon and rejoined Nicholas and the Andys.

"Slow morning, huh?" he said. "Is the Christmas party all planned for Sunday, then?"

"Actually, we were hoping you'd help us with that, Danny," Wainwright said. "We can't decide which flavour of Ben & Jerry's to get."

"Or which girl from Flapper's to invite to join us," Cartwright said, winking at Wainwright, who scowled slightly. "Just kidding, just kidding!" Cartwright added quickly, seeing the look on Nicholas' face. "We know the party has to be a family event."

"Women and children will be there," Wainwright said, glancing at Danny.

"I know! Great fun, innit?" Danny replied. "Come on, Andys, let's discuss dessert."

As Danny and the Andys proceeded toward the two detectives' office, Nicholas heard Cartwright saying to Danny, "There's one question I've been meaning to ask you when you came back."

"Shoot," Danny said.

"That's just it, actually," Cartwright said, sounding slightly embarrassed. "What was it like being shot?"

"It was the single most painful experience of my life," Danny said cheerfully. "Now, how about Chunky Monkey or Half Baked?"

"How did I know you would suggest those two?" Wainwright asked as the door marked "C.I.D." swung shut behind them.

Nicholas closed his eyes for a moment, not sure which emotion, or mixture of emotions, to feel. One clear thought did occur to him, though.

Maybe a friend was someone you liked well enough to put a coin in the swear box for him.

**IV. Godly Men**

**1410 hrs**

Sergeant Turner looked up from his copy of _The Algebraist_ to see a young clergyman entering the police station. The man had features that were handsome but slightly puffy, albeit not in an effeminate way. His serious eyes looked out at Sergeant Turner politely but somewhat timidly from behind a pair of wire-rim glasses. When he spoke, it was with Irish vowels and a slight stammer.

"Good afternoon, Officer," he said. "I have an appointment to see Chief Inspector Angel at 2:15."

"Just a minute, Reverend." Sergeant Turner got up and went to find Angel, leaving the priest to admire the domestic violence posters and images of wanted criminals that adorned the walls of the police station's vestibule.

After a few moments Sergeant Turner returned. "The Chief'll see you in the main room," he said. "It's raining in 'is office."

The clergyman blinked a couple of times.

"Thank you, Officer," he said. "Merry Christmas."

**1412 hrs**

As Reverend Raphael Stewart entered the central area of the police station, Nicholas Angel rose to greet him. Nicholas had spoken to the new vicar on the phone a few times, but had not previously met him in person. Social niceties completed, the two of them sat down near a small Christmas tree that PC Thatcher had brought in a few days earlier.

"I want to thank you again for the contributions of your officers to our roof repair fund," Rev. Stewart said. "It's good to know that Sandford's guardians have the good of the church in mind, as well as the just application of the law."

"You're more than welcome, Reverend," Nicholas said. When Sergeant Turner had told him of the vicar's arrival, he had hastily lugged the swear box into another room. There was no need for the priest to know the precise process that produced the donations.

"I came today, however, both to thank you and for another reason," Rev. Stewart continued. "As you no doubt realise, Chief Inspector, after your somewhat unorthodox but heroic actions earlier this year, your status as a leader of this community is unquestioned. I myself, as the replacement for the former long-time vicar –"

_Who's in prison for trying to kill me_, Nicholas remembered with slightly amused detachment.

"– am not nearly so well-known a figure in Sandford as yourself," Rev. Stewart finished.

"Reverend, I should point out that both of us have been in Sandford for less than a year," Nicholas said.

"Of course, of course," Rev. Stewart said hastily. "However, a great deal happened in the two or three months you spent here before me." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I understand that the midnight Christmas service is quite a tradition in Sandford. As such a newcomer, I feel somewhat diffident about the prospect of leading the celebration. Given all of that, I wanted to ask if you would consider delivering the sermon at the midnight service."

Nicholas felt a stab of discomfort and displeasure, but successfully masked his feelings. Rev. Stewart, after all, could not know he was repeating an offer once made by his predecessor, Rev. Shooter, who had proved to be a member of the Neighbourhood Watch Alliance conspiracy.

"Thank you for the suggestion, Reverend," Nicholas said. "However, I don't think I'm a suitable candidate, given that I'm not a churchgoer."

Danny had wandered into the room, carrying a piece of Black Forest cake on a paper plate, in time to catch this last exchange.

"The Chief's not comfortable with organdised religion," Danny said, his mouth full of cake.

Nicholas winced. Despite his affection for Danny, he felt deeply embarrassed when any of his officers (including himself) was seen eating by members of the public.

"I am open to the concept, Constable Butterman," Nicholas corrected him. "I just don't have any certainty about it."

"How much is certain in life, anyway?" Danny asked.

Nicholas looked quickly at him, wondering whether this remark meant more than it said. A lot had changed in Danny's life in the past year. But Danny appeared to be fully engrossed in the task of eating.

"Rest assured, Inspector, it doesn't matter if you're an agnostic," Rev. Stewart said. "The way the Church of England is nowadays, there are bishops with views much the same as yours."

Nicholas hesitated.

"Oh, go on," Danny said. "You can talk about Christmas from the point of view of a cop, how the season makes people go loony and do stupid things. It'll be great."

"Constable Butterman has a point," Nicholas said quickly in response to the slightly startled look on Rev. Stewart's face. "One of the reasons I haven't been comfortable with Christianity over the years is that I've seen too much crime and depravity to believe that humanity deserved the Incarnation."

Danny whistled.

"Ooh, that's controversial!" he said, in a tone that expressed neither disapproval nor agreement. "What do you say to that, Reverend?"

Rev. Stewart blinked nervously.

"With respect, Inspector, I must strongly disagree," the vicar said with a slight stammer. "I don't think there can be any question of mankind _deserving_ the Incarnation. The whole point of such a gift is that it is undeserved and yet freely given. There is, after all, only one solution to the equation of the universe."

"Food for thought," Danny said, scoffing the last fragment of cake. "How about it, Chief? Want to tell everyone what you think about Christmas? Free country, innit?"

Nicholas sighed.

"If you genuinely think it will improve relations between the community, the church and the police service, I will speak, Reverend," he said. "I'll have to give some thought to what I should speak about."

"Excellent," Rev. Stewart said. "We shall look forward to a unique and thought-provoking perspective, then."

When the vicar had left, Danny said: "After all, it's only right you should be out on Christmas Eve. Your name _is_ Nicholas, innit?"

"Don't you start, too," Nicholas said.

"Come on, man," Danny said. "What's wrong with sharing your name with Father Christmas?"

**V. Jolly Elf**

**Gloucester, England**

**1430 hrs**

The man with the red suit and white beard stepped off the London train, a cheerful smile on his face and vengeance in his heart. People arriving home for Christmas smiled at him and wished him a happy holiday. One or two children told him what they wanted for Christmas. Albert Bass responded to each greeting with a nod and a wink, placing his finger beside his nose – not that he had ever known what that gesture was supposed to mean.

Outside Gloucester railway station he hailed a cab.

"Where can I take you, guv?" the cabby asked.

"Ho, ho, ho! Sandford, my good man! I have a very special present to give to someone in Sandford!"

The cabby turned in his seat and looked at Albert incredulously.

"Sandford?" he echoed. "You're the second gent in as many days as has asked me to drive him all the way to bleedin' Sandford."

Albert smiled secretly to himself at the inadvertent appropriateness of the cabby's adjective.

"To Sandford!" he cried in his jolliest tones. "Once I get there, this will be the best Christmas Sandford's ever had."

**V****I. Friendly Beasts**

**Sandford, Gloucestershire, England**

**1538 hrs**

Later that afternoon there was another visitor to the Sandford police station. This visitor entered the garden surrounding the building and saw a police officer standing outside in the rain.

"Excuse me," the visitor said. "I need some help. There's a man I've been looking for for some time. Can you tell me whether he's been in this village any time recently?"

"Sure," the officer said. "Can you describe him?"

"He's about six feet tall, with white hair and a white beard," the visitor answered.

"What was he wearing when you last saw him?"

"A blue-grey wetsuit with black trim," the visitor said. "But I have the feeling that that's not what he usually wears."

The officer considered for a moment.

"Sorry," he said. "I can't recall anyone of that description in Sandford in the last couple of years. We villagers generally know when there are any outsiders in town – in fact, we had a spot of bother earlier this year, partly because some of the people here were so insular. Made national headlines, y'know."

The visitor seemed not to know, and not to care. He sagged with disappointment, the soaking rain dripping off his hair, as the officer spoke.

"Thanks," he said politely. "I hope I haven't kept you from anything important – I know you must be on duty."

"That's all right," the officer said. "I'm just waiting for my partner – we're going on patrol in a few minutes."

"Stay safe out there," the visitor said. "By the way, has anyone told you you're unusually friendly for a cop?"

"Yeah, they say that all the time," the officer said. "I almost got turned down for this job because I was _too_ friendly. Had to show them my bite was worse than my bark."

The visitor smiled sadly.

"Thanks again," he said. "And Merry Christmas."

"And Happy New Year to you, sir!" the officer said cheerfully.

"Not until I find him," the visitor said.

When he had gone, the Sandford police officer remained puzzled by three things. Perhaps he had blinked, perhaps a raindrop had gotten in his eye, but surely the visitor had vanished into thin air as he walked away? Why did the stranger have only three legs? And why hadn't they bothered to smell each other's behinds?

**VI****I. Hunted Look**

**1541 hrs**

"PC Walker's taking Saxon out on patrol now," Tony Fisher announced to no one in particular, gazing absently out the window into the garden. He had returned to the station an hour earlier, still jotting details in his notebook about the cuisine at the Vietnamese restaurant and the architecture of the pagodas. "Thought I might take the wife and kids there on Monday," he said in answer to Nicholas' questioning look.

Nicholas only half heard Sergeant Fisher's comment about Bob Walker and Saxon. He was hunched over his laptop, the only computer with a modem in the station. (The promised government funding to improve Sandford's police technology hadn't come in yet.) Typing "Beckingham" into the password dialog box, he double-clicked on the Firefox icon.

"Does anyone know the web address for the church?" he called out.

"Try kingoswaldshead dot co dot uk," Tony Fisher suggested. "Think that's it. I sometimes go there of a Sunday, if Anne's out of town."

Nicholas typed in the URL and scanned the church's home page for a list of past sermons, trying to get some idea of what he might speak about. He failed to find anything very helpful. Among the sermons listed for recent weeks were "Why the Stork Stands on One Leg" and "Get a Life". Nicholas sighed.

"There's a girl in the garden," Tony Fisher said.

His tone of voice was as lackadaisical as usual, but some instinct made Nicholas look up sharply from the computer screen.

"In the garden," Tony repeated, "there is a girl."

Nicholas hurried over to the window. Standing by the garden gate, gazing nervously up at the police station, was a heavily pregnant teenager. She had a strange look in her eyes. _Haunted?_ Nicholas wondered. _Or hunted?_

Nicholas had the strong feeling that the young woman was looking for help. But when she glimpsed the two men looking down at her, her face filled with terror. She quickly ran away and disappeared into the rain.

END OF PART TWO


	3. Trolley Boy

**Christmas Fuzz**

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of _Hot Fuzz_ and the film's epilogue. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of _Hot Fuzz_.

**Part Three: Trolley Boy**

"What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is."

Dan Quayle, Vice President of the United States of America, 1989-1993

**I. Job Interview**

**21****st**** December 2006, 1102 hrs**

Brian Hurst, the young assistant manager of the Sandford branch of Somerfield's, glanced from the job application in front of him to the tall, hulking man who sat on the other side of his desk.

"Your application form and resume are quite in order, sir," he said.

"Yarp," Michael Armstrong replied, slowly nodding his head. He and his Mum had gone to the library as soon as it opened at 9. Mum had rapidly typed a brief resume – Michael had only ever had the one job – downloaded the application from the Somerfield's website, and filled it in with her neat printing. Since Michael couldn't write, Mum had signed his name for him.

Brian glanced down at the application again. Where it asked if Michael had ever been convicted of a crime, his Mum had truthfully answered "No". The question asking whether the applicant had previously been employed by Somerfield's was answered "Yes", and "When and Where?" elicited the response "1987-2006 – Sandford". Flipping over to the employment history section, Brian saw that Michael's reason for leaving his position previously was given as "Arrested – not tried". He looked up at Michael again, slightly confused.

"So you left us before because you were arrested for a crime?" Brian asked.

"Yarp," Michael said solemnly.

"But you were never tried for it?"

"Narp," Michael replied, shaking his head.

"And now that your bout with the legal system is over, you would like your old job back?"

"Yarp."

"Well, I don't think that should be a problem," Brian said briskly. "You seem fully qualified for the position. We don't currently have someone assigned full-time to maintaining the neat arrangement of our trolleys. With your experience, you should have no difficulty handling that. Do you agree?"

"Yarp," Michael said, smiling and nodding.

"Very good. I have one last question." Brian paused dramatically, as though about to ask Michael the meaning of life. "Are you passionate about people?"

"Yarp."

"Excellent!" Brian said, rising from his seat. "Welcome aboard, Michael. Welcome _back_, I should say."

Michael shook the assistant manager's hand with a firm, dry grip. Then he turned to go.

"Excuse me, Michael," Brian said. "We haven't discussed your schedule yet."

Michael turned back and stared at him blankly. For a long moment Brian was not sure what question to ask to keep the conversation going.

"Were you leaving to go home?" he tried.

"Narp," Michael said with a puzzled look, as though surprised at the question.

"Oh! Did you want to start right now?"

"Yarp," Michael said, his deep voice almost eager.

"Oh. Good. Do you know where the uniforms are kept?"

"Yarp."

"Great! I'll get your schedule for the next couple of weeks to you later today."

"Yarp."

With another smile and nod, Michael left the office. Brian sat back in his chair, satisfied with his new hire. Michael Armstrong might not be much of a conversationalist, but he should get the job done.

**II. Uneasy Reunion**

**22****nd**** December 2006, 1021 hrs**

The following day, Michael was struggling to manoeuvre a shopping trolley with a sticky wheel into a row of other trolleys when he heard a familiar voice coming from the organic fruit aisle. It was a voice that instantly transported Michael back seven months in time and filled him with a sickening sense of guilt and fear.

"…I've sent out a bulletin to the surrounding villages, Danny, but there's no sign of her."

"How close do you think she is to givin' birth?"

"From her appearance, I'd say the baby's due any day now."

"Shame we couldn't find her yesterday. A bit tough even drivin' in that rain, let alone seeing anything through it."

Nicholas Angel, the police officer Michael had tried to hurt, turned the corner of the aisle, accompanied by Danny Butterman. Both were in full uniform and body armour. Danny's eyes narrowed as he saw Michael, but clearly neither he nor Angel was surprised by Michael's presence.

Michael sadly looked down at the floor, letting the unmanageable trolley remain where it was, rolling back and forth a bit. He was afraid to look at the two policemen's faces. When Angel spoke, however, his voice was calm and polite.

"Mr. Armstrong," he said. "We received word that you had been released, and one of the shopkeepers in the High Street mentioned to me this morning that she had seen you working here yesterday. We came to check up on you."

Michael looked up nervously. To his surprise, Angel's face displayed genuine concern. Danny, however, was glaring at him with open suspicion and hostility.

"We wanted to find out how you were doing," Angel clarified. "Are you settling back into life in Sandford?"

"Yarp."

"Are you back in your old flat in Summer Street? I understand your lease had not yet expired."

"Yarp."

"Has anyone given you a hard time about what happened in May?"

"Narp."

"That's good to know," Angel said. "Please understand, Mr. Armstrong, that our duty as police officers is to treat all citizens fairly under the law. Now that the legal system has seen fit to grant you your liberty, I hope you will feel that the Sandford Police Service is here to lend you assistance as it would any other resident of the village. I'm sure Constable Butterman agrees with me. Danny?"

"Of course, Lurch," Danny said. "Call us any time." But the look in his eyes was still deeply suspicious.

"We should let you get back to your work," Angel said. "I hope you have a merry Christmas, Mr. Armstrong."

"Yarp," Michael said, indicating with an inclination of his head that he wished Angel the same.

When the two policemen had gone, Michael's Mum broke her silence.

"See, Michael?" she said. "I was right. Chief Inspector Angel doesn't blame you for what happened."

Michael merely grunted in reply, finally shoving the difficult trolley into place. His Mum might be right about Angel, but Danny Butterman clearly had not forgotten or forgiven the bad things Michael had done.

**III. Red Suits**

**1023 hrs**

"Constable Butterman, I detected a lack of sincerity in your interaction with Michael Armstrong," Nicholas said.

Danny looked at him incredulously.

"You don't really expect me to trust him, do you?" he asked. "He tried to kill you!"

"His remorse was readily apparent to me, Danny," Nicholas said. "Even when we first booked him at the old station, he was crying as his picture was taken."

"That weren't him," Danny said knowingly. "That was his mum. She was upset he'd blackened the family name."

"Maybe so," Nicholas admitted. "But, in any case –"

He broke off as they were approached by Mrs. Martin Blower, the widow of Sandford's most prominent and most dead solicitor. Although in her late forties or early fifties, Mrs. Blower was wearing a clingy red pantsuit, with a neckline that was somewhat unsuitable for an English December.

"Why, hello, Inspector," she said rather too warmly. "And I didn't realise you were back home, Danny. Is your boo-boo all better?"

"It was rather more than a 'boo-boo', Mrs. Blower," Nicholas said, not quite succeeding in keeping the irritation out of his voice. "Nonetheless, Constable Butterman has returned to active duty."

"_Very_ active, no doubt, Danny!" Mrs. Blower said, winking suggestively at him.

"Dressed up for Christmas, I see," Danny said, ogling Mrs. Blower's better features. Sadly, her face was not among these; it was prematurely wrinkly, and her lips were unattractively full.

"What, this old thing?" Mrs. Blower said, giggling unpleasantly. "I just threw it on to go shopping."

"I've been meaning to tell you, Mrs. Blower, how pleased we all were by your generous contribution to the police relief fund earlier this year," Nicholas said.

"Why, how could I not donate?" Mrs. Blower said, fluttering her eyelashes at them. "After all, the police helped kill my husband!"

Nicholas and Danny were stunned into silence for a moment. Mrs. Blower continued smiling flirtatiously at them, clearly not aware of her Freudian slip.

"The police helped solve your husband's murder, I believe you mean, Mrs. Blower," Nicholas finally suggested.

"Why, of course! Isn't that what I said? Excellent work by all of you. Well, I must be off to find my Christmas goose. Nice seeing you, Inspector. Even nicer seeing _you_, Danny. Toodle-oo!"

As Mrs. Blower walked away, Nicholas looked after her, shaking his head.

"Something I should have warned you about before now, Danny," he said, "is that there are some women who will be attracted to you because of the uniform. You have to be wary of –"

Nicholas broke off as he turned to Danny and saw his face. Danny looked terribly upset. With what was obviously a great effort, he mastered his emotions.

"Maybe I should buy a red Cornetto before we go," he said. "For the road."

"Danny," Nicholas said, "if what that stupid woman said upset you –"

"It's fine," Danny insisted. "It's nothing, man. I just feel like some ice cream."

**1030 hrs**

As Nicholas and Danny emerged from Somerfield's onto the High Street, they saw Mrs. Blower some distance ahead of them, crossing the crowded road. Her red pantsuit glowed in the light of an unusually bright December morning.

Another flash of red in the sunlight caught Nicholas' eye. A short distance ahead along the High Street, a man dressed as Father Christmas was collecting money for charity. A placard around his neck read, "Help Reduce Global Warming – My Reindeer Will Thank You."

A passer-by placed a coin in his cup, but the Santa ignored him. He was staring fixedly after Mrs. Blower as she disappeared into the crowd. Nicholas thought he heard him mutter something that ended with the word "naughty", but he couldn't be sure. Then the Santa stepped forward into the street.

Nicholas, unnerved, darted forward to follow the Santa Claus, who was blocked from his view for a moment by a passing delivery van. When the van had gone, there was no sign of Santa. Nicholas rapidly scanned the busy street, but could no longer see anyone dressed in red. He heard Danny come up behind him.

"What's wrong?" Danny asked, puzzled. "Didn't give him your Christmas list?"

Nicholas turned to Danny, his face grim.

"We need to be back at the station," he said. "We need to be back there _now_."

**IV. Search Result**

**1045 hrs**

"It's nearly Christmas," Danny protested to Nicholas' back as the Chief Inspector strode into the police station, not even pausing to say hello to Sergeant Turner. "There are people everywhere dressed like Santa."

Without answering, Nicholas crossed to the table where he had left his laptop. He rapidly logged in and accessed the Police National Computer database. Meanwhile, the two Andys wandered into the room, clearly still not working hard on the pet shop robbery.

"What's going on?" Andy Cartwright asked. "Looking up websites from Uganda, are we?"

"The Chief thinks the Santa Claus we just saw on the High Street is a criminal or something," Danny said.

"Well, if he will break into people's houses and drink their milk in the middle of the night..." Wainwright said.

"You don't understand," Nicholas said, inputting the name "Albert Bass". "He's here looking for me. This is personal, Andy."

"What, were you especially naughty this year?" Cartwright asked. "Not clean out your locker or something? Do people for speeding just 'cause you didn't like them?"

Nicholas rose from the computer and turned to face his three fellow officers.

"It was Father Christmas who stabbed me in the hand in London last year," he said quietly.

Danny's mouth fell open with astonishment. The two Andys seemed less impressed.

"An enemy from your past returns," Danny said, awestruck.

"Dare we ask how naughty you had been last year?" Wainwright asked.

"I don't mean _the_ Father Christmas!" Nicholas snapped, finally losing his temper. "I mean _this_ Father Christmas!"

"There's more than one?" Cartwright asked, puzzled.

Nicholas turned back to the computer screen, on which Albert Bass' current status had popped up. A moment later, Danny crossed the room to the swear box and threw in a pound coin.

**V. Naughty Girl**

**1046 hrs**

Edna Blower entered her modest but tastelessly furnished home, humming serenely to herself. As usual, she didn't bother to lock the door. Generally, when people entered her house uninvited, they had something fun in mind. Especially the men.

Her two cats mewed unenthusiastically when they saw her. Mrs. Blower had never particularly liked cats, and the feeling was mutual; but they were, at least, male company. As she entered the kitchen to put the goose in the freezer, she failed to hear the front door of the house swing softly open.

**1047 hrs**

As he stepped into the High Street, some instinct had warned Albert Bass that he was being followed and should make himself less conspicuous. Fortunately, the spare red suit he had found in his closet in London two days earlier had a white lining, as did his pointy red hat. It was the work of a moment to reverse both garments, rendering him much less easy to pick out of the crowd of Christmas shoppers. Thus attired, Albert had followed home the woman in the revealing red pantsuit.

A woman her age who dressed in such a provocative manner must surely be naughty. And it was his mission in life, as Santa Claus, to seek out the naughty and the nice and punish or reward them as they deserved. Of course, most people were naughty, so punishment occupied most of his time and mental energy. It was strangely exhausting, sometimes, to make a list, and even more tiring to check it twice.

Albert was surprised to discover that the woman had left her door unlocked. It was as though she was trying to make it easy for him. Of course, had the door been locked, he could simply have climbed down the chimney.

**1048 hrs**

Upon re-entering the living room a few minutes later, Mrs. Blower was startled to see a man dressed as Santa Claus lounging comfortably on the sofa. Although he was short and chubby, his thick legs gave promise of exceptional strength and stamina. After a moment she laughed.

"And how can I help you today?" she asked. "Are you collecting for charity or some such?"

"Ah, my lady, I am merely seeking the naughtiest of the inhabitants of this fair village," the Santa Claus said with a smile. "I intend to give them special presents unlike any they have received before."

"That sounds intriguing," Mrs. Blower said. "What made you start with me, you handsome man?"

"I could not help but notice your provocative manner of dress in the High Street, where I was standing a few minutes ago," the man said. "I followed you home in the hope that I might indeed discover you to be a naughty little girl."

Mrs. Blower advanced towards him, smiling mischievously, and sat down next to him, snuggling up to his plump form.

"You will find," she said, "that I am as naughty or as nice as you want me to be."

"I am delighted to hear it," he said. "Might I ask you to tell me some of the ways in which you have been naughty this year? It will help me get in the mood to give you your present."

Mrs. Blower chuckled, her body quivering with pleasurable anticipation.

"Well," she said, "my husband died tragically in April, but that hasn't stopped me from having fun. I never bothered my pretty head about what Martin did in his spare time while he was alive, so why should he care what I do now that he's dead?"

"Why, indeed?" the man murmured. His eyes had taken on a strangely glazed and yet intense look.

"In fact, just a couple of nights after he died…" Mrs. Blower paused reminiscently. "There used to be quite a handsome young reporter in this town named Tim Messenger. He was like an eager little beaver, so cute with his eyeglasses and his hair slicked back. We had been good friends even before Martin died, and –" She chuckled again. "The night of the funeral, we had a time I'll never forget. Such a shame Tim also died, the very next day. What a messy death, too. At least he had fun his last night on earth. I certainly lived up to my married name that night!"

The Santa Claus smiled.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm ready to give you your present now."

He rummaged in the right-hand pocket of his red suit.

"Is it flat and wrapped in foil?" Mrs. Blower asked.

"No, my lady," the Santa Claus said. "It's small, round and dark."

Mrs. Blower's eyes nearly bulged out of her head with excitement.

"I can't wait to see what that is," she said.

From his pocket, the Santa Claus produced a lump of coal. Mrs. Blower frowned with disappointment, accompanied by a strange apprehension she could not explain.

"I understand," she said. "An appropriate accessory to go with your costume. And exactly what do you propose to do with it?"

"There is a very special place where this needs to go," the Santa said.

"Where might that be?" Mrs. Blower asked.

Santa showed her. It was not a pleasant thing for the cats to witness.

**VI. Murder Report**

**1201 hrs**

"There is a dangerous psychopath on the loose in Sandford!" Nicholas was saying to the Andys.

"Oh, yeah? What else is new?" Andy Wainwright asked, yawning.

"So the guy who stabbed you a year ago got out of the loony bin. How d'you know he's even in Sandford?" Andy Cartwright asked.

"I told you, I saw him on the High Street!" Nicholas said, increasingly worked up. Danny laid a soothing hand on his shoulder, but Nicholas shrugged it off.

"Are you sure?" Wainwright asked. "One Father Christmas looks a lot like another."

"Anyway, you said he was in an institution in London," Cartwright said. "Would he really come all the way to Sandford? To do what – stab you again?"

"Albert Bass is severely mentally ill," Nicholas said grimly. "It's likely that he would travel any distance for revenge on the person he believes had him locked up unjustly. He should never have been released back into society so soon, especially not at Christmas."

"Yeah, because Christmas makes everyone feel unwell," Wainwright said.

"If he thinks he's Santa, he'll go around harassin' naughty people," Danny said thoughtfully.

"I think he'll do more than harass them, Danny," Nicholas said.

"Come on, Chief," Cartwright said, clearly still sceptical. "There's no proof that he's ever contemplated anything worse than assault and battery."

Nicholas' walkie-talkie crackled. From it emerged the voice of Doris Thatcher, the only female member of the Sandford Police Service.

"PC Thatcher to Chief Inspector Angel. Over."

Nicholas grabbed the radio and pressed the button.

"Angel here. Over."

"Chief, there's been a murder on Sellier Row," Doris said. "The neighbours heard the cats inside the house screaming and wailing. They nearly jumped out of their skins when I went in to investigate."

"Who, the neighbours?" Danny asked, puzzled.

"I think she means the cats," Nicholas said quietly. "Have you ID'd the victim?" he said into the radio.

"It's Mrs. Blower, the solicitor's widow," Doris said. "She appears to have been forcibly choked on a lump of coal. A suspicious individual dressed as Father Christmas was seen fleeing the area."

"Roger, Doris," Nicholas said. "We're on our way. Over and out."

Danny folded his arms and glared challengingly at the Andys.

"See?" he said, almost triumphant. "The Chief was right. As usual."

Wainwright cocked an eyebrow at Nicholas.

"It could be just a coincidence," he said.

END OF PART THREE


	4. Rustical Quality

**Christmas Fuzz**

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of _Hot Fuzz_ and the film's epilogue. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of _Hot Fuzz_. In Section VI of this chapter Nicholas Angel quotes a 1962 statement of the British Royal Commission on Police.

**Part Four: Rustical Quality**

"'If it were the devil himself, a constable on duty should never thank God that he could not lay his hands upon him.'"

Inspector Baynes, "The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

**I. Criminal Psychology**

**22****nd**** December 2006, 1216 hrs**

Tony Fisher had been patrolling the High Street and reached the murder scene before the officers from the station. He now stood beside Doris Thatcher, looking down curiously at the grimacing corpse of Mrs. Blower.

"Sandford's first murder in... ooh, let's see... over seven months," he mused, stroking the head of the cat he held in his arms. "Crime rate's going down."

"No more gentlemen callers for Mrs. Blower," Doris added thoughtfully. "Her last one took her breath away."

They heard the outer door of the house open, admitting the sound of a bark from Saxon, who had accompanied PC Walker to the crime scene to keep away curious onlookers. Mrs. Blower's other cat, curled up on the sofa, mewed irritably in response. The door of the living room opened, and Angel, Danny, and Detectives Wainwright and Cartwright bunched into the room.

Nicholas frowned at the sight of the dead body. Although he had spoken to her only a few hours ago, he could not say he had known Mrs. Blower well. She had remained on the periphery of the investigation into the NWA and her husband's murder, never becoming directly involved in events. Still, whether he knew the victim or not, Nicholas prided himself on never losing the slightly sick feeling that had been his reaction since childhood to any violent death. If he ever failed to feel it, he would know that his job had hardened him beyond redemption.

Nicholas searched inside himself for the feeling as he regarded Mrs. Blower's body. It was still there, although he would not display it. Especially not in front of the cats.

"Have CSI been called yet?" he asked Doris.

"I radioed Sergeant Turner while you were on the way over, Chief," she replied. "He said they'd be on their way."

Nicholas nodded.

"It's getting a little crowded in here, Doris," he suggested. "Why don't you and Sergeant Fisher help PC Walker with crowd control?"

"Sure thing, Chief," Doris said. Tony Fisher allowed the cat to hop down to the floor and shuffled out of the room after Doris, glancing back at the corpse and shaking his head.

Nicholas turned back to Mrs. Blower, noticing for the first time a sheet of notepaper, holly leaves and berries printed across the top, lying on the floor just beyond Mrs. Blower's head. Andy Wainwright noticed it, too. Before Nicholas could stop him, he had plucked the note off the floor and was reading it.

"Hey, don't touch that!" Danny said before Nicholas could speak. "It might have Santa's fingerprints on it!"

"Santa usually wears gloves, doesn't he?" Andy Cartwright retorted.

"In any case, _Detectives_," Nicholas said, laying heavy emphasis on their ostensible job title, "the crime scene unit needs to photograph that in exactly the position in which we found it. Even the slightest feature of a murder scene can provide the clue that puts a killer away."

"Oh, grow up, Grissom," Wainwright said, rolling his eyes. "If you don't want to read it, I will."

Ostentatiously clearing his throat and holding the note a few inches further from his eyes, Wainwright began:

"Dear Chief Inspector Angel:"

Danny jumped involuntarily, for all the world as though startled by the latest plot twist in a movie thriller. Nicholas remained outwardly calm, but closed his eyes in resignation.

"I hope you are enjoying this fine English Yuletide. Christmas is my favourite time of year, for it is the time when virtue is rewarded and wickedness punished in every home in the land. Good little children get presents, and naughty boys and girls get coal.

"Mrs. Martin Blower was a very bad little girl this year. Anyone who looked at the way she dressed could see that she was naughty. Among her other peccadilloes, she repeatedly cuckolded her husband. She then went on to perform an unnatural sex act on the very night of her husband's funeral."

One of the cats purred loudly. Nicholas glared at it, and it fell silent.

"I was disappointed to learn that her young male friend was murdered shortly thereafter – a crime which, I am sure, did not long go unsolved with so conscientious a policeman –"

"Officer," Danny corrected absently. Nicholas shushed him.

"– so conscientious a policeman as yourself in the vicinity. His death, unfortunately, meant I could not bring him his Christmas present. I have, however, given Mrs. Blower hers, three days early. She was so excited to get it, she just died.

"I look forward to seeing you again soon, Chief Inspector Angel. I am sure you remember our encounter last year. While I admire your devotion to your work, snapping handcuffs on Father Christmas is rather beyond the pale. It deserves a present far more memorable than a mere wound in the hand.

"Signed,

Father Christmas

(a.k.a. Santa Claus)"

Wainwright casually dropped the note back to the floor as he finished. "What a load of bunk, huh?" he said to Cartwright.

As he read the last paragraph, Danny's whole body had tensed, ready for action. "You see?" he said. "Nicholas was right. It _is_ the same bloke who stabbed him last year!"

Nicholas' mind was rapidly analysing every phrase in the letter, trying to find any possible clue to Albert Bass' current whereabouts and intentions. Meanwhile, one of the cats had begun rubbing itself against his leg. Nicholas, who worked well with horses and dogs but had no great fondness for cats, tried not to wonder whether the creature was about to relieve itself on him.

"How did he know Mrs. Blower's name?" he asked suddenly. "He mentioned her full married name."

"Maybe she mentioned it to him?" Danny said, shrugging.

"Or maybe he saw it on this," Cartwright suggested, picking up a well-thumbed issue of _Vanity Fair_ from a pile of magazines on the coffee table. Mrs. Blower's name was printed on the address label.

"How many times must I tell the two of you?" Nicholas almost screamed. "Don't touch anything!"

Cartwright dropped the magazine back into place. "_Jawohl, Herr Kommissar_," he said sarcastically.

"Oh, he speaks German," Danny said, rolling his eyes.

"And Elvish," Wainwright added, glancing disapprovingly at his partner.

To Danny's surprise, Nicholas bent over and picked up the note.

"Who's disturbing a crime scene now?" Cartwright asked.

But Nicholas carefully replaced the note on the floor, positioning it exactly as he had first seen it.

"How about the fingerprints?" Wainwright chimed in. "Do your fingers not sweat or somethin'?"

Nicholas waved his right hand irritably in the air before the Andys' eyes. Only now did they notice that Angel had never removed his police-issue black gloves on entering the house.

"Not very observant for CID, are you, Andys?" Danny asked cheerily. "Sorry – no offence."

Grumbling disgustedly, Cartwright left the room. Wainwright followed, sighing theatrically. Nicholas took the opportunity to shake the cat off his leg; it hissed at him as it turned away.

"It's at times like these," Nicholas said to Danny as they headed for the door, "that I miss my ex."

"Why's that?" Danny asked, puzzled. "'Cause you're lonely for female company?"

"No, because she's a crime scene technician."

"Maybe you could win her back," Danny suggested. "Run the London Marathon or somethin'."

**II. Ominous Graphology**

**1237 hrs**

The admission form from the Shoreditch Psychiatric Institute for Therapeutic Services, now displayed on the screen of Nicholas Angel's laptop, confirmed what Nicholas already knew. Albert Bass' signature at the bottom of the SPITS form matched the handwriting of the note found next to the murdered woman. Although Nicholas was not a trained handwriting analyst, the use of printed capital letters alongside cursive lower-case ones was quite distinctive.

He turned to the other members of the Sandford Police Service, who were lined up expectantly across the width of the room, waiting for him to speak. Danny was clearly prepared to hang on his every word. Tony Fisher and Andy Wainwright stifled yawns.

"We have another serious situation to deal with," Nicholas said crisply. "There is a dangerous psychopath in Sandford who was recently released from a mental institution."

"That's not a nice way to talk about Jim Carter," Sergeant Turner objected. "He just likes helping people, especially female immigrants."

"He's not talking about Jim Carter," Sergeant Turner said quietly to his twin brother. "He's talking about Santa Claus."

"Oh, I see," Sergeant Turner said, frowning. "Carry on, Chief."

Nicholas clicked on the keyboard of his laptop, and two images of Albert Bass appeared on the screen. In one, taken the day he stabbed Nicholas, he was still wearing the Father Christmas costume, hat and beard, and was snarling at the camera. In the other picture he was somewhat calmer. The false beard had been removed to reveal a darkly bearded face and deep-set eyes.

"This is Albert Bass, aged 45, an importer of VHS erotica," Nicholas announced. "He is wanted on suspicion of the murder of Mrs. Martin Blower earlier this afternoon. It is my belief that Albert Bass is in Sandford seeking revenge against me for arresting him last year. A letter left beside Mrs. Blower's body bears this out."

"Has Jim Carter been released from the nuthouse?" Sergeant Turner asked his brother.

"Didn't you hear? He checked himself out today. Drove back to Sandford. Says he's able to control his disinhibitions."

"Albert Bass suffers from the delusion that he is Father Christmas," Nicholas continued, ignoring the interruption. "He is obsessed with the punitive side of the Santa persona, and is likely to kill anyone whom he perceives as being 'naughty'. He is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous."

"Armed with what?" Andy Wainwright asked. "Lumps of coal?"

"And a big, sharp knife, probably," Danny said.

"Apprehending this suspect is of the utmost urgency," Nicholas said. "Officers will fan out across Sandford in a standard search pattern. PC Walker, you're with Saxon. PC Thatcher, you're with Sergeant Fisher."

"Why does it have to be the married one?" Doris grumbled.

"Detectives, you're together."

"We haven't finished planning the Christmas party, Chief," Wainwright objected.

"Yeah, who's gonna buy the tablecloth and streamers?" Cartwright asked.

"Sergeant Turner, you'll remain here with Sergeant Turner and relay any calls for assistance from the public to the closest officers in the field. Also, call the news media and have them televise Bass' picture and description. Danny, you're with me."

The officers, most of them grumbling, headed for the door.

"Keep in mind that the suspect may have shaved off his beard," Nicholas called out after them.

"Yeah, yeah," Wainwright said, not turning back. "Keep your hair on, Chief."

"How long d'you fink it'll take us to find Santa?" Danny asked Nicholas as they followed the others.

"With any luck, we should be filling in his arrest paperwork by tea-time," Nicholas said.

**III. Nocturnal Mixology**

**2252 hrs**

"I can't believe we still didn't find that joker," Andy Wainwright complained, tossing back another pint of ale.

"Whole afternoon wasted on the Chief's wild goose chase," Andy Cartwright agreed.

"Maybe the Council should invite 'im to pose for pictures with the kiddies," the messy-haired Sergeant Turner suggested. "That'll get 'im."

The three of them, as well as PC Walker and Saxon, had been released from the search by Chief Inspector Angel, having been on duty longer than the other officers. Angel and Danny were still patrolling Sandford in one car, Tony Fisher and Doris Thatcher in another, remaining in regular contact with Sergeant Turner's brother at the station. So far, there was no sign of Albert Bass.

"Another round, Waris," Wainwright said to the Pakistani landlord who had taken over the Crown after the former owners, Roy and Mary Porter, were arrested earlier in the year. Sandford had become a bit more ethnically diverse since the influence of the NWA was removed. In his rare moments of introspection, Wainwright sometimes wondered whether Frank Butterman's category of "undesirable elements" had been even broader than Angel had realised.

Waris served up the new round. Cartwright took a sip from his glass and stretched contentedly, balancing himself on the bar stool.

"Well, now that we're off the search for the moment, we can get down to serious work," he said. "Should we hire the karaoke machine for Sunday, or should we just get in a CD player and a copy of _Now That's What I Call Christmas_?"

"Whatever," Sergeant Turner said. "Anythin' to stop my brother from singin'."

"What, does your brother sing off-key?" Wainwright asked.

"Oh, 'e sings on-key all right," Sergeant Turner said darkly. "In Klingon."

**2301 hrs**

Some distance behind the backs of Sergeant Turner and the Andys, a group of pleasantly tipsy Sandford residents scarcely noticed the arrival of a new drinker at their table. His deep-set, moody eyes peered intently at them out of a round face beginning to show signs of dark stubble, but his careful observation of them was not reciprocated by anyone else in the group.

"So I said to him, I said, 'No, Sandford ain't a high-crime village. I know there was all that bother earlier'n the year, but that's all over'n'done with.' But he said he still didn't want to take the job 'n bring his girlfriend here."

"Shame, really," another man said.

"Do you think you'll be able to hire anyone?" the new arrival asked.

"Oh, I dunno. Garage manager'll have my head if I don't find someone. I might have to pay a bonus under the table, out of my own pocket."

"Ooh, that's naughty of you!" laughed a pleasant, motherly middle-aged woman. "And just before Christmas, too!"

The new arrival smiled. The perfect conversational opening had presented itself.

"It _is_ Christmas on Monday," he said. "Why don't we all tell each other what the naughtiest thing we've done lately is?"

The three men and one woman at the table stared at him in surprise. Then they laughed.

"What, did you hear the news report about the murderer who's supposed to be on the loose?" the man who was having trouble hiring said. "They said he's lookin' for naughty folk. Thinks he's Father Christmas or somethin'."

"No, I didn't hear about that," Albert Bass said. "How alarming."

"Well, since it's topical, we might as well play the confession game," the second man said with a laugh. "How about it, Jackie? You want to start?"

The pleasant-looking woman frowned.

"Well, John, I haven't been particularly naughty this year, I don't think," she said. "Don't get out enough for it. One thing, though – I didn't go to my sister's brother's son's funeral. There were so many funerals around that time, I got a little tired of them."

"How about you, Toby?" John asked the garage worker. "Overcharged anyone for repairs lately?"

"Yeah, and made repairs that weren't necessary," Toby admitted with a sigh. "You know the drill."

Albert grunted to himself. So commonplace a form of naughtiness was scarcely worth punishing.

"Well, I haven't exactly been faithful to the missus, but I haven't exactly been unfaithful, either," John said. "What about you, Taylor?"

The man who had not yet spoken frowned, evidently nervous.

"This is just between us, right?" he asked, glancing furtively from one to the other of them.

"Of course," Albert encouraged him. "We'll never tell another living soul."

Mr. Taylor hesitated. He seemed to have drunk quite a bit more that evening than the others, and his hands shook as he raised his glass to his lips again, apparently trying to steady himself.

"I don't dare say it openly, not even here," he said. "I can only hint what I did. I liberated some prisoners from the High Street."

"Prisoners?" Jackie asked, puzzled. "The police station isn't in the High Street."

"I took some merchandise," Taylor said with febrile nervousness. "I stole, I stole… something I thought I could sell, but the police put out a warning, and my buyers are lying low."

Albert smiled. Not only had he found the perfect place to hide in plain sight for the evening, but he was far closer to finding out a naughty person than Nicholas Angel was to finding him.

"What about you, Mr. What's-Your-Name?" Taylor asked him. "What do _you_ have to be ashamed of?"

"As it happens, my good man, I am chiefly ashamed of my habit of pulling out my eyelashes," Albert Bass said.

**IV. Midnight Colloquy**

**2330 hrs**

Nicholas peered carefully ahead through the windscreen as he turned a corner. There was still no sign of Albert Bass. Danny was scanning the darkened streets equally carefully, also with no result.

"Not only haven't we found Santa, we haven't seen the pregnant lady," Danny said. "Hey! What if the two of them found each other?"

"That wouldn't be good," Nicholas said grimly, turning another corner. They were now driving alongside Sandford Castle, where Nicholas had once learned the truth about the NWA. A shadow near the castle gate caught Nicholas' attention.

"Danny..." he whispered.

"Why are you whispering?" Danny asked aloud.

"Sssh!" Nicholas hissed, slowing the car. "That person near the Castle entrance – I think it might be her."

"Might be who?" Danny asked.

"The pregnant teenager."

"Oh," Danny said. "I thought you meant your ex."

Nicholas sighed as he brought the car to a stop.

"Now, Danny, we need to get out of the car slowly and carefully. It's clear that this woman doesn't want to be found, even though she clearly needs help. We don't want to frighten her."

Danny nodded, understanding. The two police officers opened the doors of their car as quietly as they could, got out and closed them again equally softly. They began to move carefully toward the arched gate of the Castle.

The figure at the gate was motionless, hunched over. Its hands covered its eyes. Was it weeping? As Nicholas approached, he could hear a faint moaning, so soft it was scarcely audible. He and Danny were now within five yards of the figure, yet it could be seen only as a silhouette against the eerie night-time lighting of the courtyard beyond, and hardly any details could be made out.

"Excuse me," Nicholas said, as gently as he knew how. "Do you require any assistance?"

With startling suddenness, the figure raised its head and looked directly at them. It was, indeed, the young woman Nicholas had seen the previous day. She seemed even younger than Nicholas had remembered, unquestionably still a teenager. Her plain features could easily have been made attractive by a pleased or happy expression, but the dark circles under her eyes gave the impression that she had not been happy for a long time.

For a moment, the girl appeared frightened. Then she smiled.

"I'm glad you found me," she said hesitantly. "I do need help, but I've been afraid to ask for it."

"What's your name?" Danny asked.

"Mary," the girl said. "Mary Rankin."

Nicholas moved a step closer to her. Suddenly, the girl's head snapped up.

"Santa!" she hissed.

Nicholas' blood ran cold. He saw Danny's hand grope for the reassuring shape of the baton at his belt.

"Where?" Nicholas whispered.

"Behind your car. No, wait – he's gone under your car," the girl – Mary – said softly.

"Stay here, Constable," Nicholas whispered.

"No way!" Danny answered, a little too loudly for Nicholas' liking. "We can take him better together!"

"Someone needs to protect Miss Rankin," Nicholas pointed out.

"I'll be fine here," Mary said. "If you don't go now, you'll lose him."

Nicholas thought rapidly. If Albert Bass was really hiding under the police car, he could not approach the pregnant girl without passing the two officers on their way back to the vehicle. Perhaps Danny and the young woman were correct in their assessment of the situation.

Without speaking, he gestured back toward the car and moved stealthily in that direction. Danny followed. As quietly as possible, they approached the car, which gleamed dully in the light of the sparse streetlamps.

Nicholas remained on the side of the car closer to the gate of the Castle, where Mary had remained, and signalled for Danny to circle around to the opposite side. More softly than Angel would have expected, the plump young man padded around the car.

Nearly simultaneously, Danny and Nicholas dropped to their stomachs and dove under the car. Despite Nicholas' best efforts, Danny got there a split second ahead of him. His heart rate spiking, Nicholas thrust his head under the vehicle…

And saw nothing but his partner's pleasantly plain face gaping back at him in bemusement. A drop of oil splashed onto the pavement between them.

"Car needs servicing already, I see," Danny said aloud.

"Ssh! Listen!" Nicholas whispered.

He could hear the sound of feet running away. Backing out from under the car and springing to his feet, he turned toward the Castle gate but could no longer see Mary's silhouette. The running footsteps echoed weirdly from the stone walls of the Castle and the water of the moat. Joined by Danny, Nicholas ran ineffectually about in the darkness for a few minutes, but there was no way to know which way Mary Rankin had gone.

**23****rd**** December 2006, 0001 hrs**

"Another wild swan chase," Danny said sadly, breathing hard as they got back into the car.

Nicholas looked Danny over with concern. He looked more tired than Nicholas had seen him since he left Flint House.

"Constable, I think you should go home for the night," Nicholas said. "You've been on duty since 8 o'clock this morning, and it's only your second day back. Take tomorrow morning off, too, as you were scheduled," he continued, overriding the beginnings of Danny's protest and starting the car up.

"But there's a killer out there!" Danny said, his tired eyes suddenly wide. "We've got to catch him before he strikes again!"

"And that's why I want you in at noon tomorrow, looking sharp," Nicholas said sternly. "You're no use to the investigation in this state, Constable."

"All right," Danny said, his face falling.

"Besides," Nicholas said in a less severe tone, turning the car toward Danny's flat, "didn't you say you had a personal errand to do tomorrow morning?"

"Oh, yeah," Danny said sleepily. "Have to drive down to Lower Slaughter and pick somethin' up. But what if Santa comes after you when I'm not there?"

"Call it a hunch, Danny," Nicholas said thoughtfully, "but I have the feeling I'll be seeing him on Christmas Eve."

**V. Avian Neurology**

**1159 hrs**

Danny Butterman pulled up to the front of the police station in his Volkswagen, the precious package safely in the boot. He had awakened later than he expected, and had had to drive directly to the station from Lower Slaughter in order to get to work on time. Emerging from the car, he saw a flurry of activity through the windows. Detective Wainwright was evidently agitated, and was gesticulating wildly about something. Concerned that his worst fears had been realised in his absence, Danny ran to the door and burst inside without even a nod to Sergeant Turner, who was calmly reading _Look to Windward_ and took no notice of him.

To Danny's infinite relief, the first person he saw in the main room was Nicholas Angel, unstabbed but looking angry.

"Let me understand this, Detective," Angel was saying to Wainwright. "You saw Mr. Taylor leaving the Crown last night –"

"This morning," Detective Cartwright corrected him, blinking blearily.

"This _morning_, in the company of a man you did not recognise as a resident of Sandford? A man of about 45, five feet five inches tall, with dark eyes and hair?"

"Yeah, something like that," Wainwright said.

"And you were too pissed to notice that this man matched the description of the murder suspect?"

Danny dropped a penny into the swear box. Hearing the noise, Nicholas wheeled round and noticed his partner's presence.

"Hey, he didn't have a red suit on," Wainwright objected. "Or a big white beard."

"Or any beard at all, for that matter," Cartwright added.

"Did I not specifically tell you that Albert Bass may have shaved his beard off?" Nicholas said in frustration. "Danny, strange noises have been reported coming from Al Taylor's house on Bodega Street, and our two astute detectives have only just remembered seeing him leave the pub last night –"

"This morning." Cartwright closed his eyes and leant back sleepily in his chair.

"– with a man who was almost certainly Albert Bass."

"What kind of noises?" Danny asked.

"Loud screeches, chirping, flapping, according to the call from the neighbour."

Cartwright's eyes popped open. He and Wainwright looked at each other in excitement.

"Hey, maybe we finally have a lead on the pet shop robbery!" Wainwright exclaimed.

He began heading toward the door. Cartwright hauled himself out of the chair and was following him when they were stopped by Chief Inspector Angel clearing his throat.

"Detectives," Angel said. "This is a potentially dangerous situation. In my opinion, Constable Butterman and I are in better condition to handle it than the two of you – especially you, Andy," he said to Cartwright, who blinked woozily at him.

"What, to face a bunch of birds?" Wainwright objected.

"We've seen tougher crowds at Flapper's," Cartwright said through a yawn.

"Albert Bass may still be there, and Mr. Taylor may be in grave danger, or worse," Nicholas said grimly. "Get your body armour on, Danny. Let's get moving."

Angel and Danny headed for the locker area.

"Hey! Without us, who'd you have to plan the Christmas party for you?" Wainwright called out after them.

"Santa Claus," Nicholas said over his shoulder. "He has the experience."

**VI. Dangerous Ornithology**

**1215 hrs**

As Angel and Danny sped toward Bodega Street, Danny smiled at the familiar but still exciting sound of the police siren. Everything was back to the way it should be – except that people were being murdered, of course.

"What's your sense of what our course of action should be at our destination, Constable Butterman?" Nicholas asked.

"Hmm. Well. If we knock on the door and there's no answer, we'll have to break the door down, won't we? Mr. Taylor was seen in the company of a suspected murderer last night, somethin' strange is goin' on in his house right now, and he might be in danger. It's our job to help him. Protect and serve, and all that."

"I agree, Danny," Nicholas said. "I'm impressed. You seem surer of yourself since you came back on duty."

"Well, it probably comes of studyin' so much for the Sergeant's exam in Flint House," Danny explained.

"You're planning on taking the Sergeant's exam? I didn't realise that, Danny." Nicholas turned onto the quiet street where Mr. Taylor lived.

"Oh, well, I was plannin' on it being a surprise, y'know," Danny said modestly.

As they stepped out of the car, they could indeed hear a strange combination of noises emanating from Mr. Taylor's house. It sounded like a giant was stepping on an aviary. Even from outside, the flapping and chirping were extremely loud.

Nicholas rapped on the door.

"Sandford Police Service," he called out. "Mr. Taylor, are you in there?"

There was no response.

"Mr. Taylor, are you all right?" Nicholas called out again.

No answer.

"Mr. Taylor, at the count of three Constable Butterman and I are coming in to check on you. We have reason to believe you may be in danger. One… two… three!"

The combined force of Nicholas and Danny's right boots sent the front door of the house flying open. The bird sounds reached a deafening level. A group of ten birds flew out the door past the two officers' heads, wheeled through the yard in confusion and then settled on the garden fence, almost as though embarrassed. Nicholas recognised the birds from the description he had sent to the surrounding villages.

"It looks like we've solved the Andys' bird robbery for them," he said.

"That's not all of them," Danny pointed out. "The rest must be inside."

Nicholas and Danny cautiously advanced inside the house. The door to the living room was closed, but muted bird sounds could be heard beyond it. Slowly approaching the door, Nicholas reached out with one hand and opened it.

Instantly, the remaining thirty missing birds swooped out of the living room in a chaotic, maddened flock. They swarmed around Angel and Danny's heads, pecking at them with their beaks. One or two of them managed to take chunks out of the two officers' unprotected arms and hands. Angel was thrown backwards by the sheer momentum of the birds and banged his head against the wall. Stunned for a moment, he slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

"Nicholas! Chief! Are you all right?" Danny asked as the birds found their way out the front door to join their fellows in the garden.

"'The police should be powerful but not oppressive… they should be efficient but not officious…'" Nicholas muttered groggily. After a moment he shook his head to clear it, and let Danny help him to his feet.

The two officers entered the living room, much of which was occupied by four large bird cages. These had been left open, and their latches showed signs of having been forced with a knife or similar instrument. _Someone other than Mr. Taylor has been up to no good here_, Nicholas thought.

Beyond the living room was the kitchen. The door stood ajar. As Nicholas approached it, he could see a hand stretched out motionless across the tile floor.

Angel and Danny entered the kitchen. Danny inhaled sharply, then whistled. The body of Al Taylor was lying between the sink and the kitchen table. A grotesquely large lump in his throat made clear that he had suffered the same fate as Mrs. Martin Blower. A note lay on his chest, written on the same Christmas notepaper found next to the previous victim. Without comment, Nicholas sat on his haunches to read the note without moving it and disturbing the crime scene.

"Dear Chief Inspector Angel:

"I love birds, don't you? They fly through the sky, as free and high as the reindeer that pull my sleigh. They should not be caged and forced to sing for the enjoyment of naughty human beings. Still less should they be stolen from their legal owners only to be sold to some other naughty person.

"Al Taylor was far too free with his comments last night at the Swan. Alcohol loosened his tongue, of course. He did not realise that the person who listened to his veiled confession, the person who followed him as he staggered home, was none other than Father Christmas. I go to many places and adopt many guises in my quest to discover the naughty ones who deserve coal in their chimneys.

"Be on the lookout, Inspector Angel. This Christmas season, Santa may be closer than you think.

"Yours,

Santa"

END OF PART FOUR


	5. Fuzz Fete

**Christmas Fuzz**

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of _Hot Fuzz_ and the film's epilogue. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of _Hot Fuzz_. The Klingon language was developed by Marc Okrand.

**Part Five: Fuzz Fete**

"Christmas is for cops and kids."

James "Whitey" Bulger

**I. Party Planners**

**24****th**** December 2006, 1248 hrs**

"What I want to know is, what pudding are we going to have? The pudding hasn't been chosen yet, and that's very important."

The messy-haired Sergeant Turner frowned at his brother's concern.

"Don't know," he replied. "Long as it quivers when you touch it with the back of a spoon, don't matter much to me what flavour it is."

The straight-haired Sergeant Turner sighed at his twin's lack of comprehension.

"Tapioca pudding isn't exactly Christmassy, is it?" he retorted. "Neither is vanilla, come to that. Plum pudding, now that says Christmas. Chocolate's good, too. Chocolate's always good…"

The two Andys came in through the front door of the police station and passed the Sergeants Turner at the front desk. Cartwright was carrying a compact boom box, and Wainwright was yelling at him.

"No, no, Andy! You're dragging the plug on the floor! And the CD inside'll get scratched with you holdin' it at that angle!"

"I don't know why we need the CD player, anyway," Cartwright grumbled. "We got the karaoke machine in, too, after all."

"Don't you remember last year, Andy?" Wainwright said. "We need it 'cause everyone will be too pissed to sing after a couple of hours."

By this time, Cartwright had entered the central room of the police station. The Turners heard him grunt as he placed the CD player carefully on a table, followed by the clinking sound as he dropped a penny into the swear box for Wainwright. At the same moment, Chief Inspector Angel entered the station.

"Oh, hello, Chief," straight-haired Turner said. "Love the ribbon you ordered to decorate the station with. How'd you choose it?"

"It was green," Angel said shortly, proceeding past the Turners without further small talk.

Nicholas entered the central area to find the Andys testing the sound on the two music systems simultaneously, while Bob Walker helped Doris Thatcher decorate the Christmas tree she had brought in several days earlier. Evidently no one else was interested in the fact that a multiple murderer was at large in the village, or that a pregnant woman in need of assistance had so far eluded their attempts to help her.

Then Angel noticed Danny sat in front of the laptop, deeply engrossed. He had two Firefox windows open, one containing instructions for delivering a baby, the other displaying Albert Bass' PNC database file.

Nicholas smiled and went to check his locker. Danny's Christmas present still rested safely on the shelf inside.

**1301 hrs**

Nicholas Angel looked up from the never-ending paperwork on the village's public Christmas celebrations to see a wholly unexpected visitor. Michael Armstrong stood in front of Angel's desk in the alley beside the station. In his massive arms was a cake box stamped "Somerfield's".

"Oh, hello, Mr. Armstrong," Nicholas said, slightly startled. "What brings you here today?"

In answer, Michael held out the cake box toward him. As he took it, Nicholas heard Danny emerge from the police station behind him. Danny's sharp intake of breath conveyed his concern at the scene in front of him.

Nicholas calmly opened the box as Danny dashed forward, presumably in the belief that the box might contain a bomb or something equally dangerous. Instead, the two officers found themselves looking at a golden cake with creamy yellow frosting. White icing formed the words "Merry Christmas" and the shapes of two bells, frozen in mid-peal.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Armstrong," Nicholas said, closing the box again. "Is this for our party tonight?"

"Narp," Michael said.

"Oh, is it for our lunch right now?"

"Yarp," Michael said, smiling and nodding.

"Well, that was thoughtful and considerate." Nicholas was feeling rather peckish; everyone had been too busy, with party preparations or more serious work, to think about lunch. "Are you still on your lunch break? Would you like to come inside and have some cake with us?"

"Yarp. Yarp," Michael said eagerly, answering both questions.

Nicholas rose from his seat and gestured for Michael to precede him through the door. Danny followed, his face dark with suspicion.

"You sure this is a good idea, Chief?" he whispered, loudly enough that Michael surely heard him.

Nicholas did not reply.

**1305 hrs**

As he started on his second slice of cake, Danny's eyes darted back and forth nervously between his Chief Inspector and the large man who had tried to kill Nicholas earlier in the year. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, constantly on the lookout for any sign of homicidal behaviour from their visitor.

The fraught atmosphere of the occasion made Nicholas uncomfortable. Michael, however, appeared to be unconcerned, looking with interest around the interior of the new police station, which he had never before visited.

Tony Fisher sauntered by, munching on a marmalade sandwich he had retrieved from the depths of the station's refrigerator.

"Quite an interesting lunch party you have going there, Chief," he said. "Your choice of dining company's a little unexpected."

Nicholas glared at him, but spoke calmly.

"Mr. Armstrong was kind enough to stop by with a Christmas cake from his place of work."

"Baked with the normal ingredients, I hope?" Detective Wainwright asked, raising his eyebrows significantly at Danny, who returned the look and nodded conspiratorially at him.

Nicholas' exasperation was so great that he nearly choked. Before he could respond, however, Michael rose from the table and looked at him, a mute question in his eyes.

"The lavatory?"

"Yarp."

"Down the hall, second door on your right."

"Yarp."

The moment Michael Armstrong was gone, Danny leaned across the table and spoke softly to Angel.

"Andy's right, y'know. Maybe we should've had the cake tested for poison before eatin' it."

"As I have explained before, Constable Butterman, I do not believe Mr. Armstrong harbours any further felonious intent," Nicholas said, struggling to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Detective Cartwright shrugged. "It's your funeral, Chief."

"To each his own, I s'pose," Sergeant Fisher offered. "Just not sure I'd ever eat cake with a member of the public who'd attacked me twice. 'Cept for Anne, of course."

"No one tells me who to eat with!" Nicholas snapped, finally losing his temper.

"Aw, c'mon, Chief, they have a point," Danny said. "It doesn't feel right trustin' him. Would you have milk and cookies with Father Christmas?"

"I don't believe Albert Bass can be rehabilitated," Nicholas said. "His dissociative identity disorder is inextricably linked to his criminal behaviour, and the Santa personality has completely overwritten his own. As we all know, Michael Armstrong has three personalities, but only the 'Michael' persona was ever violent, and only under the influence of Simon Skinner."

"Lurch or Mum or sister, I don't trust any one of 'em more than the other."

"We shouldn't call him 'Lurch', Danny. It's both inappropriate and cruel to refer to him by a hurtful nickname."

"I don't care." Danny folded his arms doggedly. "Whatever you call him, if he tries anythin', he'll have Danny Butterman to answer to."

Andy Cartwright chuckled.

"You three remind me of someone," he said. "Can't think who, just now."

"He killed his mum and sister, y'know," Wainwright said casually.

Angel and Danny, startled, looked up from their cake.

"Excuse me, Detective?" Nicholas asked sharply. "On what grounds do you make that accusation?"

"Well, they died in a household accident." Wainwright lit a cigarette. "You're the one who says all the accidents 'fore you came here were _murders_, Chief."

"What kind of accident?" Angel asked.

"His mum tripped on the vacuum cleaner cord and hit 'er head, and the sister, Karen, fell down the stairs runnin' to help her," Danny explained. "Ten years ago, now."

Cartwright also lit a cigarette. "Lurch found 'em. Hasn't been the same since."

"He started talking like his mum and his sister sometimes," Tony Fisher added. "Seems he wasn't able to live without 'em, so he pretended like they were still there, out o' loneliness."

"Or guilt," Wainwright suggested.

Nicholas abruptly stood and addressed Wainwright forcefully.

"Without forensic evidence from the scene, Detective, there's no proof that Mr. Armstrong was involved. As police officers, it is highly unprofessional for us to make unsubstantiated allegations about things we don't know!"

"Well, I do know that Michael Armstrong is a dangerous freak who should be back in gaol where he belongs!" Wainwright closed the lid of the cake box with such force that he dented it.

At that moment, Michael re-entered the room. It was obvious from his stricken expression that he had heard Wainwright's words. The room fell silent, except for the soprano voice wafting from the CD player: "O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie…"

"Oh. Hello, Lurch," Wainwright said weakly. "Merry Christmas to you and, um, yours."

Michael, his head bowed, silently left the room. His massive frame shook as though racked with sobs, but no sound came out.

Angel's fury rendered him incapable of speech, and even Danny looked shocked. Tony Fisher wandered off, muttering. Wainwright reopened the cake box and took a slice for himself.

"I think we'd know by now if there was something wrong with it," he said in answer to Cartwright's surprised look. "Want some?"

"No, thanks," Cartwright said. "Sometimes I wonder why I like you so much."

"Must be my overwhelming natural charm," Wainwright suggested, retreating to the detectives' office with his slice of cake.

**II. Copper Christmas**

**15****01 hrs**

"Danny, may I see you for a minute in the locker area?" Nicholas asked.

Danny looked up from the computer screen where he was once again reviewing the instructions for delivering a baby. It had been several years since his basic police training on the subject, and he felt a little rusty on it – he didn't quite remember what to do after cutting the cord.

"Sure, Chief," he said, following Nicholas into the corridor. Once there, Nicholas retrieved the flat, rectangular package from his locker.

"I thought I should give you your present before the party," he said, handing Danny the package. "Merry Christmas, Constable Butterman."

"A DVD!" Danny exclaimed excitedly as he tore open the wrapping paper. "_Violent Cop_," he read from the cover, which showed a Japanese man carrying a gun, a thoughtful expression on his face. An inset image showed the same man shoving the gun into the mouth of a suspect.

"It's a Japanese cop movie," Nicholas explained. "I believe you have most of the American and British ones. And it is Region 2 and widescreen – I checked."

"A Film By 'Beat' Takeshi," Danny read from the DVD case.

"I understand that he's a well-respected Japanese filmmaker," Nicholas explained. "He used to be a television comedian before playing a police officer in the movies."

"Quite a transition," Danny said. "Thanks, Chief. Sorry I can't give you your present yet, but it's from all of us."

"All the officers contributed to buy me a present?" Nicholas asked, oddly touched.

"Well, yeah," Danny said. "At least, they said they'd pay me back after Christmas. But they all signed the card."

**193****0 hrs**

By the time the party began, Nicholas Angel felt much calmer than he had been in the aftermath of Michael Armstrong's visit. The afternoon had not been without incident – Bob Walker had broken the copier by attempting to photocopy some of Saxon's Christmas-shaped treats for use as party decorations. It would, of course, be impossible to get the machine fixed until after Boxing Day, seriously interfering with the paperwork Nicholas still needed to get done. But even that did not prevent Nicholas from feeling a secret contentment, despite everything else going on, at the approach of Christmas Eve.

As the members of the Sandford Police Service gathered in the central area of the station, Angel realised, not for the first time, how pleased he was to see each of them – even Cartwright and Wainwright. Despite his hope that Michael Armstrong had been rehabilitated by the removal of Skinner's influence, he had to admit to himself that Andy Wainwright's sentiments, however tactlessly expressed, were the natural reaction of a police officer to a person who had attempted to kill a fellow officer and yet was not in prison.

_Who was it who said most people are better than they pretend to be?_ Nicholas wondered. _If the Andys had a little more imagination, they could actually be decent detectives._

The Andys led off the karaoke concert by recreating Bing and Bowie's duet of "The Little Drummer Boy". Wainwright was Bing and Cartwright was Bowie. They followed up this performance by dancing together to an instrumental arrangement of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree."

Angel sat down next to Danny, sipping his cranberry juice. Even if there had not been the possibility of Albert Bass or Mary Rankin turning up in the course of the evening, Nicholas still would not have drunk alcohol at an event where everyone else was doing so. Back in London, there had been several Christmases when he was the only person his fellow officers would talk to the morning after the party. Everyone else had embarrassed themselves too thoroughly for anyone to speak to them the next day.

"Gay, aren't they?" Danny mused, nodding at the Andys, who were clapping their hands in unison.

"Constable, two men can dance together without wanting to have sex," Nicholas said disapprovingly.

"Oh, the Andys have sex all the time," Danny said casually. As Nicholas spluttered into his cranberry juice, Danny added, "Just not with each other."

Nicholas put his juice glass down and took a deep breath.

"Hey, love your shirt," Danny said. "Very abstract."

Nicholas dabbed ineffectively at the splotch of cranberry juice on his shirt-front with a napkin, but didn't make much progress before the Andys finished their dance and everyone applauded. Angel hastily followed suit.

The next performer was Tony Fisher, who turned off the karaoke machine and accompanied himself on a guitar he had retrieved from his locker. The song he sang in a strange, toneless baritone was of his own composition.

"In Sandford it's Christmas for copper and perp,  
For those who pass gas and those who burp.  
Christmas is here at last, at last;  
Soon that cute Baby New Year replaces Year Past.  
Hang all the stockings, one by one;  
Make sure all your shopping and gift-wrapping's done.  
Carols are piercing the Gloucestershire air;  
Reindeer are pooping in the market square.  
This is what Christmas is and was;  
Drinking with friends and singing with fuzz!"

There was a long pause. Then Danny put down his bottle of beer and applauded enthusiastically. Nicholas and the others hesitantly followed his example.

"So, what did everyone think of that, then?" Tony asked.

Saxon barked once, sharply. Bob Walker slowly got up, muttering to himself, and deposited a 50p coin in the swear box. An awkward silence followed, during which Tony's face fell several inches. Nicholas cleared his throat loudly.

"Who would like to go next?" he asked.

The straight-haired Sergeant Turner raised his hand. His brother groaned.

"You goin' to sing 'The Holy Well' again?" the messy-haired sergeant asked.

"Yes, of course," the other Turner twin said, picking up the microphone. "Don't I sing it every year?"

"In Klingon?"

"And what's wrong with that?" the well-groomed twin asked mildly.

"Why is it that _I'm_ the sci-fi fan the rest of the year, but come Christmas, _you're_ the one singin' words I can't pronounce?"

"Hey, don't forget, I was converted to Christianity by 'Bread and Circuses'," the neater Sergeant Turner replied. Furrowing his brow and growling into the mike, he sang:

"jar vaghDich poDaq qaSlu'  
'ej QI'lopDaq wov qaSlu'  
SoSoyDaj thob choqghaH HoS  
reHmeH jaHlaHchugh  
reHmeH reHmeH jaH choqghaH HoS  
'ej DaH reHmeH yIjaH  
'ej bIbep HIQoymohQo'  
ramDaq juHDaq bIchegh"

**1959 hrs**

Albert Bass chuckled fiercely to himself. Light and strange music wafted from the Sandford Police Station across the street. Like coppers the world over, Nicholas Angel and his fellow officers were celebrating the holiday by drinking and dancing, revelling in their holier-than-thou "brotherhood" of law enforcement, despite the fact that many of them were naughtier than most.

"Alcohol, aliments and song have made them forget that I even exist." He smirked. "But then, many people don't believe that I exist. Shall I interrupt their little party? I think not – even in their state of inebriation, nine officers and an Alsatian might be too much for poor old Santa Claus. Besides, this night of all nights, murder is not enough…"

Albert paused, pondering what he might do. Some distance away, hidden (she thought) by the side of a building, the pregnant teenage hussy stared longingly at the police station, took one step toward it and then one step back.

Albert had seen her before, wandering through the village, avoiding people's gazes, drawn, like himself, to Nicholas Angel, and yet waiting for the right moment for their meeting. He had guessed her naughtiness and held his hand, somehow knowing that she would give him a means to strike at Angel in a manner far more painful than any knife-wound would be.

This was the night. And the conditions were perfect. Even in his red suit and white beard, he had the feeling he would be able to blend in with the crowd.

**III****. Wondrous Gift**

**2015 hrs**

"Qo' Qo' jatlh choqghaH HoS 'ej monchugh  
Qo' Qo' 'e'Qo'  
qa'pu' yem law'  
'ej QaHwIjvaD jach  
jatlh QunHoSghaj QumpIn  
ghoghDaq QaQ 'ej ghoghDaq HoS  
be'Hom 'IH puq soHneS neH  
QI'tu' voDleH soHneS"

The room erupted in applause. Nicholas joined in heartily; although he had not understood a word of the song, it was remarkable enough that Sergeant Turner had been able to pronounce the words, let alone sing them in tune.

"Who wants to go next?" Turner asked, twirling the microphone.

Danny raised his hand. "If it's all right with everyone, I'd like to sing the theme from the original _Lethal Weapon_," he said.

"But that's not even a Christmas song!" Andy Cartwright objected.

"You and your action movies," Wainwright grumbled.

"Yeah, but the movie takes place at Christmas," Danny argued, sounding slightly hurt.

Cartwright gave in. "All right, if it'll make you happy, Danny," he said, taking another swig from his bottle of beer. Wainwright did the same, as though fortifying himself for what was to come.

As Danny sang the Honeymoon Suite song in a voice that was slightly better than one might have expected, Doris Thatcher, who was already somewhat tipsy, pulled Cartwright to his feet and began to dance with him. Wainwright looked on in tolerant amusement as the two of them staggered about the room to the rough-hewn melody of Danny's song.

Nicholas led the applause as Danny finished. Doris and Cartwright stopped dancing and smiled at each other.

"I love a man with a moustache," Doris murmured in Cartwright's ear.

Cartwright chuckled. "I'll bet you say that to all the detectives," he said.

"Does anyone else feel like singing?" Wainwright asked, stepping across to the karaoke machine. A non-committal murmur from the assembled police officers answered him, and he turned the machine off. Tony Fisher turned the CD player on instead, and Doris began slow-dancing with the elderly Bob Walker to "I'll Be Home For Christmas".

"Hey, we haven't given the Chief his present yet," Danny said. "Andy, would you give me a hand?" He dashed out of the room with surprising speed for his bulk, with Wainwright following him more slowly, already staggering a bit. Nicholas heard the front door of the station open and close behind them as they headed for Danny's car.

A few minutes later, as Doris and Bob continued dancing to the tune of "Silver Bells", Danny and Wainwright re-entered the room, pushing a small object on wheels. Nicholas turned to see what it was, and his mouth fell open in astonishment. Somehow, Danny and the others had found a police pedal car from the late 1970s – a car identical to the one Nicholas had been given as a child.

"Merry Christmas, Chief!" Danny exclaimed, beaming. Doris and Bob stopped dancing and applauded, joined by the others.

_I will not cry_, Nicholas thought. _I am Chief Inspector of the Sandford Police Service. I will not cry in front of my officers. It's only an old pedal car, after all. I will not cry._

And he did not cry. But it was difficult.

"Found it on eBay," Danny explained. "The Chief had one as a kid. Thought he'd like to have one that wasn't bought with drug proceeds."

Wainwright and Cartwright simultaneously raised their eyebrows at that. Danny handed Nicholas the card, which was, indeed, signed by everyone – even Saxon's paw print was there.

"Thank you, all of you," Nicholas said with absolute sincerity. "This is the best Christmas present anyone's ever given me."

"What are you going to do with it?" Wainwright asked. "You're a little too big to ride in it, y'know."

Danny's face fell, as though he had not thought of that.

"I think, Detective, that it will make an excellent planter for my peace lily," Nicholas said. Danny's face lit up again.

Apparently satisfied with the resolution of this question, Doris and Bob resumed their dance. Danny pushed the pedal car over to Nicholas, who sat down near the CD player and began nudging the car back and forth slightly, admiring its shining paintwork. Ancient dreams of high-speed chases, of apprehending criminals, of facing the darkness armed with only a baton and a notebook flooded back into Nicholas' mind. For a moment he could see his job again through a child's eyes, or through Danny's. It was, after all, the best job in the world.

Danny sat down between Nicholas and one of the CD player's speakers, evidently not bothered by the loudness of the music in his ear.

"Glad you like it, man," he said, taking another swig from his bottle of beer. "Drove down to Lower Slaughter yesterday to pick it up. Bloke had it in his garage from when he was a kid, never used it..."

Nicholas glanced over at Danny. He looked tired again, perhaps from the beer. Nicholas felt a renewed twinge of worry about him – he had, after all, been out of Flint House for less than a week – but kept it to himself.

"Thanks again, Danny," he said. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Chief," Danny said. And with those words he fell asleep, Christmas music blasting in his ear, the half-drunk bottle of beer still in his hand.

**I****V. Meek Souls**

**2100 hrs**

Michael Armstrong shuffled along the darkened street, head bowed, hands in coat pockets to keep them from the cold. It had taken all his mother's persuasive powers earlier in the day to convince him to bring the cake to the new police station. He could not forget that on his last visit to the old station, during its last day of existence, he had been processed to be sent to gaol for doing horrible things – things he still could not understand having done. He remembered his Mum's tears as she saw her son photographed, fingerprinted and written up as a violent criminal.

Now, as though by a miracle, he was back home in Sandford, the threat of a long prison term lifted – for the moment, at least. But it seemed his worst fears had been realised when it came to the reaction of people who remembered what he had done. Even Danny Butterman, who had always been polite and friendly in the old days, now regarded him with black suspicion. Oddly enough, it was only Nicholas Angel – the outsider, the stranger from London, the man he had tried to kill – who still seemed to regard him as a human being.

As a light snow began to fall, Michael turned onto the street leading past the Sandford Police Station, intending to approach it and then walk away again, perhaps as a physical expression of his confused thoughts. His head still bowed, he nearly ran into the woman standing in front of him.

Michael looked up, startled. The "woman" was no more than a teenager, but she was heavily pregnant. She was much shorter than Michael (not that he met many people taller than himself), and her tear-stained face looked up at him through the snow with a mixture of apprehension and hope.

"Can you help me?" she asked. "I need help. I know I need help. I have to go to the police station, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do it. If someone came with me, maybe I would have the courage. Will you come with me, sir?"

Many thoughts flashed through Michael's mind: of the suspicious looks Danny Butterman had given him; of the outright hostility of the detective with the moustache who thought he should be back in gaol, just as Michael had feared people would; of his own crushing terror of returning to that place where he was treated even by other prisoners as a freak and a monster, and the voices of his mum and sister seemed to fall silent in the cold darkness; of the possibility that, if he re-entered the new police station, they would find some excuse, some reason to send him away again, and enjoy Christmas without wondering if he was going to do something bad.

But he knew what his mum and his sister would say. Before they could speak, Michael answered.

"Yarp."

**2125 hrs**

The party was winding down. After dancing together to ten songs in a row, Bob and Doris had fallen exhausted on a couch, their heads lolling together as they drowsed. Wainwright and Cartwright were talking together in low voices, Cartwright occasionally laughing softly, but what little of their conversation Nicholas could make out sounded like gibberish. Tony Fisher sat in the corner of the room, his head back, snoring. The Turner twins were cleaning up in the kitchen area, messy-hair tipsily ribbing straight-hair about his earlier musical performance. Danny was still fast asleep.

Thus only Nicholas noticed the young woman and the tall, balding man hesitantly enter the central area, having found no one at the front desk. In his astonishment, for a moment Nicholas remained as silent as everyone else.

Mary Rankin cleared her throat.

"Is there someone here who can help me?" she asked.

Nicholas jumped up. Roused by his motion, Danny awoke, drained the rest of the beer bottle at one gulp, and also got up, somewhat more unsteadily.

"I'm Chief Inspector Angel," Nicholas said. "I believe we've met before."

The young woman smiled sadly.

"I've been afraid to get help," she said, "but I've reached the point where I can't wait any longer. You see, I'm – I'm HIV-positive."

Nicholas nodded. The young woman's strange behaviour began to make a bit more sense.

"Did you have troubles at home, ma'am?" he asked.

"You could say that," Mary said dryly. "Mum and Dad kicked me out a year ago, and I moved in with Jonath – I mean, with the baby's father. When I found out I had HIV, I didn't know what to do, so I ran. You see, I know it must have been Jonathan who infected me. I thought he loved me. Maybe he did. I don't know…"

"Love can be a lethal weapon," Danny said sadly.

"We can contact the child's father, or your parents, later if you like," Nicholas said. "It's entirely up to you. What's important right now is you and the baby. Are you experiencing labour pains?"

"If I weren't, do you think I would have come here?" Mary asked, an edge of desperation in her voice. "I'm not exactly thrilled about telling you all this, but there's no avoiding it now. And I think I'm safe asking for help at a police station, at least."

Nicholas nodded, reflecting on the irony that Mary Rankin would have been far from safe if she had come there for help one year ago tonight. She was, after all, hardly the sort of person his predecessor would have wanted in Sandford. Frank Butterman would have solicitously offered to escort her to the hospital himself, and she would never have been heard of again by the other Sandford Police officers, or by anyone else.

But was she safe even now? Albert Bass was still out there, and he might well regard a woman clearly pregnant out of wedlock as "naughty".

"I'll call an ambulance," Nicholas said. "Now that you're in labour, and especially considering the complicating factors of your condition, you should get to hospital as soon as possible."

"No! No ambulance," Mary said with unexpected vehemence. "I'm sorry, Officer, it's just that – somehow I'm afraid it would drive me to an unknown location. I don't know what's going through my mind, but I'm scared to take an ambulance."

Nicholas nodded.

"Excuse me for a moment, Miss Rankin," he said. "I need to consult with my colleague."

Nicholas took Danny to one side. The other police officers began to stir, roused by the sound of voices. Straight-haired Sergeant Turner entered from the kitchen and stood in the door, listening curiously.

"Danny," Nicholas said, softly enough for Mary not to overhear, "would you drive Miss Rankin to hospital? Albert Bass is in Sandford after me personally, and it's not safe for her to be with me, tonight of all nights."

"But I can't possibly drive when I've been drinking!" Danny objected, a little too loudly. "I'm a policeman officer!"

"Well, who else hasn't been drinking?" Nicholas asked, looking around the room. There was no response. Saxon looked up from his position at Bob Walker's feet, where he had been lapping up a bowl of eggnog, then put his head down again with a whine and covered his eyes with his paws.

Michael Armstrong cleared his throat.

"Mr. Armstrong," Nicholas said in surprise. "Are you sober this evening?"

"Yarp," Michael said, nodding and smiling.

"Do you have a driving licence?"

Michael paused in thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Narp," he said sadly.

"Looks like you have no choice, Chief," Danny whispered.

Nicholas turned back to Mary Rankin, who convincingly managed to give the impression that she had not heard any of the forgoing discussion.

"Miss Rankin," he said, "I will drive you to the closest hospital. Danny, stay here and keep in radio contact in case there's any sign of – trouble."

"No way!" Danny said hotly. "The Turners can do that! No way are you goin' out there by yourself with Santa on the loose."

Nicholas sighed with exasperation. Mary politely raised an eyebrow.

"Haven't caught him yet, have you?" she asked pointedly.

"We'll discuss it on the way, ma'am," Nicholas said. He turned to Sergeant Turner. "Sergeant, let us know if anything develops. We're going to Buford Abbey Hospital. Mr. Armstrong, thank you for helping Miss Rankin – be careful going home in the snow."

"Want to come," Michael said.

The roomful of groggy police officers stared at him, astonished. Doris gasped. Cartwright blinked several times. Danny glared at Michael suspiciously.

"Mr. Armstrong," Nicholas said, "did I understand you to say you would like to come with us?"

"Yarp."

"You mean you can say something other than 'Yarp' and 'Narp'?" Cartwright asked incredulously. Wainwright nudged his partner sharply in the ribs, but Michael appeared undisturbed by the rudeness of the question.

"Yarp," he said, nodding.

"Michael," Nicholas said, "I should warn you that this trip may be dangerous, as I think Miss Rankin already realises."

"Dangerous," Michael repeated in his deep, slow voice. "Want to come. Want to help."

Nicholas took a deep breath and looked directly into Michael's eyes. He had to crane his neck back to do it.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked. As he spoke the words, he suddenly remembered another time when he had asked Michael Armstrong the same question, under very different circumstances.

"Yarp," Michael said.

**V. Charity Collectors**

**2133 hrs**

Nicholas Angel drove away from the Sandford Police Station, Mary Rankin seated next to him. Although the "shotgun" position in a car was, statistically, the most dangerous seat in case of a traffic collision, he wanted to keep an eye on her condition. She was experiencing no further labour pangs at the moment. Danny Butterman and Michael Armstrong were squashed together into the back seat of the small police car. Nicholas could see Danny in his rear-view mirror, still watching Michael's every move with profound distrust.

"As you seem to be aware, Miss Rankin, a man named Albert Bass is still at large in Sandford, suspected of murdering two people he considered 'naughty'," Nicholas said as he turned the corner away from the police station. "The possibility exists that he would place you in the same category."

"He wouldn't be the first," Mary sighed.

"As far as you are able, let me know if you see any sign of a man dressed in a red suit and wearing a white beard. Michael, Danny, you be on the lookout as well."

"Yarp," Michael said. Danny gave Michael a dirty look, and grunted his assent.

Nicholas turned into the High Street, entering the central shopping district of Sandford. A few moments later he slowed the car to a stop, fighting the urge to slam on the brakes.

There before them, seen through the falling snow, were the twenty charity collectors Rev. Stewart, the new vicar, had brought into the village to request donations for those less fortunate. As last-minute shoppers placed coins in their donation pots, they expressed their thanks with jolly laughter and merry twinkles in their eyes.

Each and every one of them was dressed as Santa Claus.

"Hey," Danny said into the silence inside the car. "At least they're not evil robot Santas…"

END OF PART FIVE


	6. Evetime Song

**Christmas Fuzz**

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of _Hot Fuzz_ and the film's epilogue. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of _Hot Fuzz_.

**Part Six: Evetime Song**

"I mean, after all, that's why the military and the police exist – to protect the artists of the world!"

Cab Blues, _Blues Brothers 2000_ (written by Dan Aykroyd and John Landis)

**I. ****Car Conference**

**24****th**** December 2006, 2136 hrs**

Nicholas Angel peered ahead through the windscreen of the police car at the twenty Santa Clauses collecting donations in Sandford's central shopping district. While he remained outwardly calm, his mind was racing in furious circles, trying to decide what to do.

"It could be worse," Danny said softly from the back seat. "You could be seeing what life in Sandford would be like without you."

"This wouldn't be a good day for that," Nicholas muttered.

"Or experiencing the same day over and over again, trying to get a woman into bed with you."

"Danny, that was _Groundhog Day_. It took place in February."

"Or you could be trying to get your mum and dad to buy you a BB gun –"

"Danny, would you please stop talking about movies? This is an emergency situation!"

Danny lapsed into an embarrassed silence. Seeing his hurt expression in the rear-view mirror, Nicholas felt a twinge of guilt, but he pushed the emotion aside to concentrate on the matter in hand.

"Anyway," Danny spoke up again after a moment, "does it matter if we don't know which one's the killer? All we have to do is get Mary here to hospital. We're in a police car. Even if he reveals himself, what's the worst he can do?"

"Flamethrower," Michael suggested.

"Excuse me?" Nicholas said, still unused to Michael's no longer bi-verbal vocabulary.

"Flamethrower," Michael repeated. "Grenade. Machine gun. Boom-boom."

"What do you think, Chief?" Danny asked. "Is Albert really that crazy?"

"Yes, he is," Nicholas said. "Much as I regret to admit it, Mr. Armstrong's concern may be justified."

"But he's dressed as Father Christmas," Danny argued. "Where in the costume could he hide something like that?"

"Some of them have sacks of presents," Mary pointed out.

Silence fell again inside the car. This time, it was broken by Mary.

"Perhaps we should go somewhere safe to consider our options," the young woman suggested. "I haven't had a contraction in a while."

"Back to the station?" Danny asked uncertainly.

"Narp," Michael said firmly. "Retreat – narp!"

"I think I know just the place, Miss Rankin," Nicholas said. "Actually, I was supposed to go there later this evening anyway."

**II. Heavenly Music**

**2145 hrs**

"The tenor section was weak. We'll have to try it once more from the beginning…"

Before becoming an agnostic, Nicholas Angel had been raised Roman Catholic. Even after deciding that he was no longer certain of God's existence, Nicholas had never stopped wearing the St. Christopher medal his mother had given him. He had come to think of it, indeed, as an appropriate symbol of his religious doubt, given that the Catholic Church itself no longer seemed certain the saint it commemorated had existed.

As he entered the church, Nicholas felt the same sense of strangeness he always did in an Anglican house of worship. Nothing seemed to be in quite the right place, giving him an odd sense of dislocation, despite the fact that it had been several years since he had entered a Catholic church. From the choir, disorientingly located between the pulpit and lectern and the high altar, he heard the voice of the music master, Mr. Laws, admonishing the children's chorus.

"And please try to remember this time that the word is 'favoured', not 'flavoured'. Our Lady is not an after-dinner mint."

The few boyish titters in response were quickly silenced, presumably by a glare from Mr. Laws, who was also the proprietor of Sandford's butcher shop.

"One, two, three…"

As the carol resumed, Michael, who was some distance ahead of the others, cocked his head and listened to the music, his eyes closed in an expression of sublime contentment. Danny took the opportunity to speak to Nicholas in a low tone.

"With respect, Chief, don't you think Lurch might harm Miss Rankin?" he asked, indicating Michael with an inclination of his head.

"Harm me? Why should he harm me? He doesn't seem dangerous," said Mary, who had overheard.

"He was in prison up till last week, for tryin' to do in the Chief here," Danny whispered. "I still think they shouldn't have let 'im out. It's like Paul McGann releasin' the creature in _Alien Cubed_."

"I saw that movie, and I don't remember Paul McGann releasing the creature," Mary said.

"It's on the DVD," Danny explained. "It's in the Assembly Cut. They took his whole subplot out of the movie, and only bits of his part were kept in. Oh, hello, Gabriel."

Gabriel Weaver, the young leader of Sandford's gang of so-called "hoodies", had hurriedly entered the church behind Nicholas and the others. Angel remembered Rev. Stewart mentioning that several of the hoodies had joined the choir in the last few months, perhaps feeling freer to participate now that Rev. Shooter was gone.

Gabriel waved silently at Danny and made to hurry past the two police officers.

"Gabriel," Nicholas said. "Is everything all right?"

"Fine," Gabriel replied. "I'm really late, Inspector."

"I just want you to know how sorry I am about your granddad," Nicholas said, feeling uncomfortable about telling a lie in church. Tom Weaver, after all, had been a member of the NWA. The one they had all forgotten about until it was too late. The one who had been killed when the police station exploded.

The one who had shot Danny.

Nicholas glanced sideways at Danny, half-expecting him to misunderstand and be hurt. But it was clear that Danny perceived the desirability of sparing the young man's feelings.

"You know, your granddad was… really somethin'," Danny said. "No one who knew him will ever forget him."

"I know," Gabriel said.

"How have your family been doing?" Nicholas asked. "His death must have been hard on all of you."

"Yeah, right. It's OK," Gabriel said dismissively. _Too dismissively_, Nicholas thought. "Mr. Laws'll slaughter me like a pig if I'm any later than I already am."

Nicholas nodded, and Gabriel rushed back toward the choir. The singing had halted again, and Nicholas heard Mr. Laws beginning to chastise the teenager for his lateness.

"I remember singin' in the choir when I was his age," Danny said nostalgically. "Always loved the _Ode to Joy_."

"Yarp," said Michael, who had rejoined them.

"I never knew you sang in the choir here, Danny," Nicholas said. "And Mr. Armstrong – you know the _Ode to Joy_?"

Nicholas remembered, with a renewed sense of guilt, his snapping at Danny over his loud singing of the Beethoven piece on his departure from Flint House four days earlier. _There's still a lot I don't know about him_, he thought. Before Michael could answer Angel's question, however, Mary Rankin suddenly gasped and sank down carefully on a pew.

"Another contraction?" Nicholas asked, concerned.

"No, I just remembered I didn't finish my Christmas shopping yet. Of course it was another contraction!" the young woman snapped. Considering the severe physical and emotional stress she must be under, she was handling herself remarkably well, Angel thought.

"Miss Rankin," Nicholas said apologetically, "I understand the concerns you expressed earlier, but I think that, given all the circumstances, it would be safest for you if I were to call an ambulance. If you prefer to press on with us in the car –"

"Fine, I don't care," Mary said, a tear rolling down her cheek. "I don't exactly feel like getting up on my own at the moment anyway."

"Danny, Michael, stay with her," Nicholas ordered. "I'm going to see if there's a phone in the vestry."

**21****48 hrs**

In the vestry Nicholas found not only a telephone, but also Rev. Stewart, who was making sure everything was ready for the midnight service.

"Good evening, Chief Inspector Angel," he said in surprise. "May I be of assistance?"

"I just need to use your phone, Reverend," Nicholas said. "There's a young woman in the church in need of transport to the nearest hospital."

"I hope there's nothing seriously wrong," Rev. Stewart said, eyes blinking with concern behind his spectacles.

"As it happens, she's in labour," Nicholas said.

"An appropriate evening for it." Rev. Stewart smiled. "The phone is right over there, Inspector."

"Thank you." Nicholas glanced down at himself, slightly embarrassed. Out of habit, he had worn his uniform and stab vest to the police Christmas party. After the events of May, none of his officers were inclined any longer to mock his use of body armour. The uniform shirt was now stained red with cranberry juice, and he and Danny had armed themselves with their batons prior to escorting Miss Rankin to the car.

"I apologise for coming into church in my police gear, Reverend," Nicholas said. "It seems somewhat inappropriate, especially tonight."

"Oh, it's nothing to be embarrassed about," Rev. Stewart reassured him. "Saint Cuthbert first came to the gate of Melrose Abbey on horseback, armed with a spear. From what I've heard, he would probably have approved of your horsemanship, Inspector."

Nicholas smiled and picked up the phone.

**III. Dead Family**

**2149 hrs**

Danny and Michael had sat down a few feet away from Mary Rankin, both carefully watching her for further signs of distress. The choir was now practising "Once In Royal David's City", and they could hear Mr. Laws chastising one young man for his hesitation in commencing the solo first verse. Danny spoke to Michael in a tone too low for Mary to hear him.

"Lurch," he said, "how come I never see your mum and sister any more?"

"Here," Michael said.

"What?"

"Here, now. Mum and Karen."

Danny looked around nervously, but of course saw no one except Mary Rankin, still huddled on a pew.

"All right," Danny said, humouring Michael. "They're here, now. But they don't get out much, do they?"

"Narp," Michael replied.

"Why not?"

"Accident. Mum tripped over cord. Karen fell helpin' 'er. Can't work now. I work for 'em."

Danny chose his next words carefully.

"Are you sure it was an accident, Lurch?" he asked.

An expression of intense pain crossed Michael's face. He squeezed his eyes shut. Much to his own surprise, Danny suddenly felt sorry he had asked the question.

"Accident," Michael repeated, opening his eyes again. "He said so."

"Who said so?" Danny asked. "The coroner?"

"Narp. The Bad Man."

"Who?"

"The Bad Man. Mr. S-S-Skinner."

Danny glanced sharply at Michael, his mind suddenly filled with a new suspicion as dark as the old one.

"How did he know?" Danny asked.

"There. There when I found 'em. With your dad."

Danny gasped involuntarily. The sorrow and shame he usually held at bay descended on him like a physical sensation, and the dimly lit interior of the church seemed a bit darker than it had before.

"My dad was there?" he asked emptily.

"Yarp. Said not to tell. Bad Man said I could keep workin' for him forever, now that Mum and Karen couldn't."

"But why? Why were they there?" Danny asked desperately.

"Don't know," Michael said.

But Danny knew. Frank Butterman, Chief Inspector of the Sandford Police Service, had decided in his infinite wisdom that Violet and Karen Armstrong were undesirable people to have living in his village – because they enjoyed techno music, or went to church too often, or for some other reason. They weren't the first people to whom it happened, nor would they be the last.

Danny Butterman suddenly felt very much alone.

**IV. Dangling Shoe**

**2155 hrs**

Paul Balsam, an ambulance technician with the Great Western Ambulance Service, sped toward the church in his Renault ambulance, whistling "Do They Know It's Christmas?" to keep his spirits up. He was not really in the mood for whistling; it had been a tough year for the ambulance trust, and the station where he worked was in danger of closure. He might not even have been driving to Sandford tonight to bring a pregnant woman to hospital if a police officer had not called the case in as an emergency. The trust had already lost its contract with Buford Abbey Hospital for non-emergency patient transport to a private company.

Paul's shift was almost over. After getting the young lady to casualty, he would be able to return home and enjoy Christmas with his partner. There would be a roaring fire, and hot chocolate with marshmallows, and –

Paul slammed on the brakes. A man was lying on the side of the road. Paul could not see whether he was injured or merely drunk.

"Dispatch," Paul said over his radio to the dispatch centre in Quedgeley. "Possible injury by the side of the road. Going to investigate."

The dispatcher acknowledged, and Paul got out of the ambulance and approached the man.

"Sir?" he called out. "Are you hurt? I'm a paramedic. I'm coming to help you. Don't move if you're hurt."

Evidently the man was not hurt. He sat up.

Paul gasped. The man was dressed in a red suit with a pointed red hat, and there was a wickedly jolly gleam in his eye. In his outstretched hand was a lump of coal.

Like most people, Paul Balsam had often had nightmares in which he wanted desperately to run, but could not move; in which he needed desperately to speak, but could not utter a sound. Now all those nightmares came true at once.

"You…" he gasped, forcing the words out. "You're… You're Albert Bass!"

"No, no, young man," Albert said mildly. "That is merely my _nom de guerre_. My true name is Father Christmas. The more Americanised of your countrymen refer to me as Santa Claus."

"I… I heard about you on the radio!" Paul said, extending his hands as though to ward off a blow. "You're a wanted murderer!"

"A murderer?" Albert mused, cocking his head to one side in thought. "No, I am not a murderer. I simply give naughty little boys and girls the presents they deserve."

He advanced on Paul, lump of coal still outstretched.

Paul's muscles suddenly began to work again. He turned and dashed back toward the safety of the ambulance and the radio. Albert Bass tore after him with astonishing speed for a man so short and chubby.

Paul was only a few steps away from the ambulance when he felt a pair of unbelievably strong arms grabbing him from behind. He struggled and kicked, to no avail. A venomous voice whispered in his ear.

"An earring in _one_ ear, my good man?" Albert hissed. "Just as I suspected. You, my dear sir, are objectively disordered. You are inherently and permanently naughty. You deserve this present, you do indeed."

With one hand around Paul's throat, Albert used the other to jam the lump of coal into his mouth and down his trachea. As Paul Balsam died, his last thought was of David, who would be waiting all night by the roaring fire, in vain.

**V. Fallen Shoe**

**2202 hrs**

Choir practice had ended at ten o'clock. Mr. Laws had dismissed the choristers, warning them sternly to return not a minute later than half past eleven for the midnight service. As the children slowly dispersed, Nicholas approached Gabriel Weaver, who stood in the centre of a group of his "hoodie" friends, most of whom were chattering quietly about the music for the service and the Christmas presents they expected to receive. Gabriel, however, remained silent.

"I just wanted to thank you all again for your help in May," Nicholas said, addressing the whole group. "I know I sent some of you into a potentially dangerous situation, which I would never have done if the emergency had been less serious. Without your help the crisis might not have been resolved as satisfactorily as it was."

"Don't mention it, Inspector," several of the boys muttered, and melted away into the semi-darkness of the church. Gabriel made to follow, but Nicholas addressed him again.

"I realise that this year must have been difficult for you, Gabriel," Nicholas said. "A lot has changed for all of us over the past eight months. If you want to talk about it –"

"It's fine, Inspector," Gabriel said, shrugging. "I should be getting home."

"Just let me give you my mobile number, in case you feel like talking to someone," Nicholas insisted.

Acquiescing without enthusiasm, Gabriel silently held out his own mobile phone to Nicholas, who inputted the number of his mobile in the directory under the name "Angel".

"Thanks," Gabriel said, taking the mobile back. "I'm late."

As Gabriel quickly walked away, Danny and Michael approached Nicholas. To his surprise, Mary Rankin was not with them.

"Constable!" he called out. "How is Miss Rankin?"

"She's left already, Chief," Danny said cheerfully. "Said to thank you for your help. Ambulance picked her up a minute ago."

Nicholas frowned. It made sense that the ambulance had already come; he had, after all, called for it over a quarter of an hour earlier. But he felt uncomfortable about not having seen Miss Rankin into the vehicle himself, especially given the seemingly irrational concerns she had expressed earlier in the evening. Something was not right...

"Danny," Nicholas said slowly, "did anything about the ambulance or the driver seem odd to you?"

Danny also frowned.

"Nothing in particular," he said thoughtfully. "NHS ambulance. Average-looking bloke drivin' it, dressed in uniform, about five feet five, dark eyes, dark –"

Danny broke off, his eyes widening in terror.

"Skip to the end," Nicholas said grimly.

"Santa," Michael said. "Stupid Michael – Santa!"

Cold perspiration broke out around Nicholas' waist.

"You think _you're_ stupid, Lurch?" Danny said desperately. "You're not a policeman officer! She came to us for help, and I gave her right into the hands of the killer! If anythin' happens to her, I'll never forgive myself!"

Danny turned to Nicholas, a bleakly sorrowful look settling onto his broad, plain features.

"Permission to resign from the Sandford Police Service, Chief," he said, fishing in his pocket for his warrant card and notebook and holding them out to Nicholas. "I've failed to serve and protect."

"Permission denied, Constable," Nicholas said, waving the warrant card away. "We have to get after them. Danny, Michael – back to the car!"

END OF PART SIX


	7. Aqua Lung

**Christmas Fuzz**

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of _Hot Fuzz_ and the film's epilogue. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of _Hot Fuzz_. "I Sing of a Maiden" is a fifteenth-century English poem, and thus in the public domain.

**Part Seven: Aqua Lung**

"Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence, but never in that of courage."

Dr. John H. Watson, "The Adventure of the Red Circle" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

**I. ****Dark Night**

**24****th**** December 2006, 2208 hrs**

Over half an hour had passed since Chief Inspector Angel and the others had left the Sandford Police Station, and Sergeant Turner had begun to believe that the police radio would remain quiet for the night, or at least until Angel reported their safe arrival at Buford Abbey Hospital. Sergeant Turner's brother, worn out by his musical exertions earlier in the evening, was dozing with his head on the desk.

Then the two calls came in rapid succession, and the evening became a lot more interesting.

The first was from the ambulance dispatch centre in Quedgeley. One of their drivers had failed to report back after seeing an injured man by the roadside in Sandford and going to investigate. Before Sergeant Turner could relay this message to the Chief, Angel himself called in, sounding more frantic than he had since the day the old station blew up.

"Sergeant Turner, come in," his voice crackled from the radio.

"Turner here, Chief, the messy desk sergeant responded as his better-groomed double blearily rubbed the grit from his eyes. "What's the trouble?"

"Albert Bass has abducted Mary Rankin," the disembodied voice announced. "They are believed to be in an NHS Renault ambulance, registration number unknown."

"Understood, Chief," Turner replied. "I'm willin' to bet that's registration mark WS01 SRM, assigned to ambulance technician Paul M. Balsam."

"Confirm, WS01 SRM. Sergeant, how did you ascertain the number?"

Turner explained about the ambulance driver who had fallen out of contact. When he finished, Angel's voice was even grimmer than before.

"Acknowledged. Constable Butterman and I have located Mr. Balsam, but we can't do anything for him now. We are pursuing the ambulance in the hope of apprehending Mr. Bass and recovering Miss Rankin. Keep us informed of any further developments. Over and out."

Sergeant Turner's twin yawned.

"What did he mean, 'we can't do anything for him now'?" he asked sleepily.

"I think 'e means," the messier Sergeant Turner said darkly, "that Mr. Balsam has gotten coal in 'is Christmas stockin'."

**II. Hard Labour**

**2210 hrs**

On a gurney in the back of the ambulance, Mary Rankin felt a rising sense of unease. It was difficult to tell where the driver was going without being able to see out of the vehicle, but Mary had a good sense of direction, and she was fairly sure that the ambulance was not going in the direction she believed Buford Abbey to be. To add to her concerns, her contractions had become more frequent.

"Hey, driver!" she called out. "Are you sure you're going the right way?"

To her dismay, the ambulance slowed to a stop. Then the driver poked his head back into the rear compartment. The lower half of his face was now covered with a false white beard, and he had donned a pointed red hat with a white brim and a white ball at the top.

"Oh, crap," Mary said.

"Now, now, my dear young lady," Albert Bass admonished her. "Such naughty language for a girl of your years to use. You should not speak thus on Christmas Eve. But then, you've been naughty all year, haven't you?"

He looked down at Mary's distended belly and clicked his tongue in disapproval. He put his hand in his pocket, and when he took it out again there was a knife in it.

"I feel the need..." he murmured, his eyes flicking up and down the length of Mary's body. "The need to inflict a wound..."

Mary gulped, her lips tightly squeezed together, knowing that if she opened her mouth she would scream. Albert smiled.

"Excuse me for a minute, young lady, while I change fully into my proper attire for this evening," he said. "And fear not – I cannot possibly give you your present until after you give birth. After all, your child has not yet been naughty. He or she has not yet even learned to disbelieve in me..."

"You're not Father Christmas." Mary spat the words defiantly at him. "You're not even Santa Claus. You're nothing but a pathetic little man with delusions of grandeur."

"And you, my dear young lady, will soon be nothing but a memory. Don't worry about the baby, though – I often help my reindeer give birth. I can even perform an emergency C-section, if necessary."

Albert ducked back into the driver's compartment, whistling "Santa Baby" as he donned the rest of his Santa suit over the ambulance technician's uniform. Mary had always hated that song; now she hated it even more. She made a brief effort to rise from the gurney, but immediately felt giddy and sank back down again.

For a moment Mary wondered whether she should tell Albert Bass her secret. Would he let her go, out of fear for his own safety? Then, with a surge of vengefulness which shocked her, she considered _not_ telling him, and letting him reap the possible reward of his actions.

Before she could come to terms with the darkness of her own thoughts, the ambulance was under way, her contractions had intensified further, and the nightmare had begun again.

"On, Dasher!" Albert Bass shouted to the night as he drove toward the outskirts of Sandford. "On, Dancer! On, Prancer and Vixen!"

**III. Wandering Hunters**

**2211 hrs**

"So, Santa is on the loose, and a pregnant girl is in trouble," Danny shouted over the sound of the siren.

"Christmas Eve as usual, then," Nicholas said.

"Yarp," Michael agreed.

Nicholas slowed the car to a stop as they reached a junction. As he tried to work out which way to turn, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Michael Armstrong looking apologetically at him from the back seat. His facial expression made words unnecessary.

"Do you need to piss, Mr. Armstrong?" Nicholas made a mental note to put a penny in the swear box when he got back to the station. Or maybe Danny would do it for him.

"Yarp."

"Go ahead. We're trying to guess which way they went."

"Yarp," Michael said, nodding, he got out of the car and headed for a nearby tree.

Danny watched him for a moment as he walked away. Then he turned back to Nicholas with an expression of anguish. So intense was the look of pain on his face that Nicholas flashed back to the day Danny was shot, and wondered for an irrational moment whether his wounds had somehow reopened.

"It's all right, Danny," he said. "We'll get her back. Don't worry."

"It's not that. It's –"

Danny hesitated for a long moment before blurting the words out.

"Skinner and my dad killed Lurch's mum and sister."

Nicholas sat back, stunned.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "How did you find out?"

"While you were callin' the ambulance, I asked Lurch some leadin' questions," Danny said miserably. "I thought _he_ killed 'em, y'know."

"That was very wrong of you, Constable," Nicholas said sternly. "It was completely improper and inappropriate procedure. You must have known I wouldn't have approved."

"I know," Danny replied, even more miserable. "But he said my dad an' Skinner were there when he found 'em. They must've killed 'em and made it look like an accident."

"Probably," Nicholas agreed, his face grim.

"It's always horrible to be reminded of the awful things Dad did," Danny said sadly.

Nicholas' heart went out to him. Before he could say anything, however, Michael returned. No sooner had he gotten into the car than the police radio crackled, and Sergeant Turner's voice came over it.

"Chief, ambulance service is trackin' their vehicle's GPS monitor. It's headed for the lay-by on the village limits."

Nicholas sat bolt upright. Now they had a chance of locating Albert and Mary. Perhaps they would not be too late.

"Understood, Sergeant," he said into the mike. "We're on our way. Over and out."

Nicholas started the car as he spoke. Danny activated the lights and siren, and they sped away down the road, a blur of yellow and flashing blue and a threatening wail in the night.

**IV. Naughty Interruption**

**2215 hrs**

Mary Rankin cried out in pain as another contraction racked her lower body. Her pain was not merely physical. On a list of the people she would have liked to have near her while she was in labour, a homicidal Father Christmas who intended to kill her as soon as her baby was born would be near the bottom.

To her surprise and further alarm, the ambulance again slowed and stopped. She heard the door of the cab open as Albert Bass stepped out. A moment later he had opened the rear doors and joined her in the back of the ambulance.

"Your pardon, young lady," he said with a courtly bow. "Another matter demands my attention for the moment. I have seen another person engaged in naughty behaviour, on this night of all nights."

He reached into his pocket. To Mary's horror, this time he pulled out, not a knife, but a large lump of coal. Seeing the expression on her face, he laughed jovially. The sound chilled Mary's blood.

"Ho, ho, ho!" he said. "This present is not for you, my dear. You will not be receiving coal in your stocking this Christmas – oh, no. My present for you will be to make you a present. A present for Chief Inspector Angel, sliced and diced, with scarlet ribbons flowing around the package."

He took out the knife again and mimed slicing her throat open. Mary's horror at the threat was again mingled with dark visions of consolation. If the knife slipped and cut his own hand, her blood would pronounce his sentence...

Albert Bass replaced the knife and the lump of coal in his pockets and proceeded to tie the frightened teenager up with plastic tourniquet bands and an IV line. He gagged her with a handkerchief, then stepped back and surveyed his work with an air of satisfaction.

"Lie still, my dear," he murmured as he left her. "I shall soon return. Santa Claus has work to do."

**V. Perverted Politician**

**2216 hrs**

A small white car was parked in the lay-by on the border of Sandford, from which the whole vista of the village would have been visible if it had been daytime. The car was one of those models that are designed to be friendly to the environment, to get the best possible gas mileage, and thus convey no impression of power or energy, no matter who drives them. The owner of this particular car was at present inside it, doing his best to convey an impression of personal power and energy to his companion for the evening.

"Environmental issues are the main thrust of my legislative agenda," James M. Carter, Member of Parliament for the constituency of Sandford and Lower Slaughter, was saying to the young woman who snuggled next to him. "I can't tell you how many bills I've pushed through against the resistance of the committee."

"What's your favourite part of the job?" Sally Winter murmured.

Carter considered for a moment.

"I think it's the social intercourse with my fellow members. The excitement of parliamentary debate, discussing tariff protection, the penetration of foreign goods into economically sensitive areas of Britain... These issues arouse me intensely."

The young woman giggled.

"Then, of course, there's the question of controlling emissions," Carter continued. "Climate change is making our planet hotter than ever. We need to handle the globe more lovingly so that the seeds we plant today can explode into waves of joy and life. I want to erect an edifice of environmental law that will stand firm for future generations, and I believe I have already made a seminal contribution to the debate."

"It must be hard for you, sometimes, to keep so many balls in the air," Sally mused.

"'Hard' is the right word," Carter said, kissing her on the shoulders.

"I'm so glad you're back in Sandford, Jim," Sally said when they paused a minute later. "I know the arrest was a mistake. You were just trying to show the immigrant lady how to feed the ducks."

"Can't control myself around the opposite sex, sometimes," Carter murmured, his squirrely beard tickling her as he kissed her mouth. "Especially not around you."

"What about Mrs. Carter?" Sally asked, mock-seriously.

Carter considered the question for a moment.

"Oh, she has no problem controlling herself," he said, kissing Sally again. "Around me, at least."

After a moment Carter pulled away. His paramour was clearly having a good time, and yet she seemed nervous.

"What is it?" Carter asked. "Are the new breath mints not working?"

"It's not that. It's..." Sally hesitated. "You know the first two murder victims were found here earlier this year? Here, in this lay-by. Decapitated," she added dolefully.

Carter looked at her, surprised. Then he laughed.

"That's what's worrying you?" he chortled, reaching out to her again. "Forget it, babe. Murder doesn't strike in the same place twice."

Someone knocked on the driver's-side window. Sally gave a little shriek, then cut it off, embarrassed.

Carter, himself startled, turned toward the knock. A man dressed as Santa Claus stood outside, bent over to look at them through the window. For a moment Carter had the strange feeling that he had seen this man somewhere before, recently.

"Global warming," Carter heard faintly through the glass. There was a can in the left hand of the man in the red suit, and the coins inside rattled as he shook it. His right hand was hidden behind his back. "Won't you help end global warming? My elves are suffering from the heat."

Carter's heart grew warm within him. What a splendid opportunity to contribute to his favourite cause! He extended his hand to roll the window down.

"No!" Sally gasped in horror. "Didn't you see the news? Don't you know that's –"

It was too late. The instant the window was lowered, Albert Bass' arm smashed through the gap, shoving the lump of coal in his right hand into Jim Carter's astonished mouth.

Sally Winter screamed. With what seemed to her agonising slowness, she fumbled for the door handle, opened it and launched herself out of the car and away, still screaming.

"Ah, the seductive solon," Albert Bass said calmly as he continued choking the life out of Jim Carter. "How excellent that the young lady has escaped your clutches. If you could talk right now, I am sure you would tell me that she was a willing participant. Ah, but the young woman you accosted at the psychiatric clinic did not seem so willing to me."

Jim Carter's eyes bulged even farther out of his head with recognition as his face began to turn blue.

**VI. Roadside Rescue**

**2220 hrs**

The young woman ran past the police car as it approached the lay-by.

"Was that Mary?" Nicholas shouted.

"No, Chief!" Danny said despairingly. He was on the side of the car Sally had passed and had gotten a better look at her. "That's Sally Winter! She's a table-dancer at Flapper's!"

"Go after her and help her, Danny!" Nicholas slammed on the brakes, unbuckled his seat belt and threw the driver's-side door open.

"What about you?" Danny asked, clambering out.

"I'm going to see what she's running from. There's no time to argue. After her – _now_!"

Without further hesitation, Danny ran off in the direction the young woman had gone. Michael, having received no specific instructions, followed Angel.

As Nicholas cautiously entered the lay-by, he saw the ambulance parked to one side, but that was not what arrested his attention. Standing at the driver's-side door of a small white car was Albert Bass, dressed as Father Christmas, apparently assaulting someone inside the vehicle. To his own surprise, Nicholas felt a sudden twinge of remembered pain in his left hand, but he did not hesitate. He drew the baton from his belt.

"Stop!" he shouted for the second time that year. "In the name of the law!"

Albert, startled, stepped back from the car. Nicholas saw the occupant slump forward over the steering wheel. For a moment, Albert's face lit up with an unholy glee. Then he seemed to notice something behind Nicholas. He appeared frightened, then scowled and ran off into the darkness.

As he hurried forward to the car, Angel turned and glanced over his shoulder. There stood Michael Armstrong, a formidable and potentially terrifying figure, silhouetted in the glare of the police car's lights.

There was no time to remonstrate with Michael for placing himself in danger. Nicholas raced around to the driver's side of the car and discovered James M. Carter, M.P., near death from asphyxiation, a grotesque lump in his throat.

Nicholas quickly reached through the window and opened the door. He placed his arms around the man's chest, his fists below the ribs, and heaved.

The lump of coal cracked the windscreen as it flew out. Jim Carter coughed, gagged, and started breathing. He fell back in the seat, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling.

Danny and Sally Winter approached the car, Sally chattering nervously.

"No, I haven't seen Andy in days. I meant to tell him, I think Mr. Taylor might have had something to do with the pet shop robbery. He had a green feather on his shoulder the last time he came in –"

"Danny," Nicholas said urgently, "check on the ambulance."

With an intake of breath, as though steeling himself for the worst, Danny veered off toward the ambulance. Michael eagerly followed him.

"Miss Winter, can you get Mr. Carter to hospital?" Nicholas asked. "The streets aren't safe for him tonight."

Jim Carter was still gasping, incapable of speech.

"Oh, and Mr. Carter?" Nicholas said, turning back for a moment on his way to the ambulance. "No nuzzling the nurses."

**VII. Holy Birth**

**2222 hrs**

Danny slowly opened the rear doors of the ambulance, afraid of what he would find inside. His heart leapt for joy within him when he saw the young woman wriggling on the gurney, struggling with her bonds.

"Miss Rankin?" he said thickly, leaping up into the ambulance and pulling the handkerchief from her mouth. "It's OK. You're safe now."

"C-Constable Butterman?" Mary Rankin whispered, seemingly scarcely able to believe her danger was over.

"Don't worry," he said reassuringly. "The Chief'll be here in a minute."

Rummaging through the tools in the back of the ambulance, Danny found a scalpel and freed Mary from her bonds, being very careful, for more than one reason, not to break the skin. By now Michael had joined Danny in the ambulance.

"Hey," Mary whispered up to the tall, bald man.

"Hey," Michael replied in his deep voice.

"You're very kind and brave, you know. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Yarp," Michael said. "Mum and Karen. Told me now."

Nicholas appeared behind the ambulance. His concerned face flooded with relief when he saw that Mary was unhurt.

"Miss Rankin," he said calmly, masking his emotion as best he could. "We still need to get you to hospital. I'll radio for another ambulance."

Mary gasped. Her face creased with pain as another contraction racked her body.

"I don't know if I can wait that long," she groaned.

"Why can't we go in this?" Danny asked, indicating the ambulance with a movement of his head.

"I'm not certified to drive this class of vehicle, Danny."

"Aw, c'mon, Chief," Danny said, a childlike expression of trust in his eyes. "I know you can drive anythin' with flashing lights."

**2229 hrs**

"Pull over!" Mary screamed as they approached Sandford Castle. "I can't wait. The baby's coming now!"

Nicholas pulled up in front of the Castle, where he had first spoken to Mary two nights earlier. The sound of singing floated across to them from the moat, where people were carolling from the small round boats known as coracles. Nicholas irrelevantly tried for a moment to remember whether he had gotten round to signing the safety paperwork for this event. Then he and Danny hurried around to the rear compartment, where Michael had stayed with Mary.

Nicholas and Danny quickly pulled on rubber gloves and surgical masks from the supply in the back of the ambulance. Danny tossed a pair of gloves and a mask to Michael.

"Shouldn't you cover that up, Inspector?" Mary asked weakly, pointing to a spot on Angel's forearm.

Before Nicholas had fully understood what Mary was talking about, Danny had pulled a plastic bandage out of a box and was applying it to a wound on Angel's arm, still open from the assault by the birds at Mr. Taylor's house the previous day.

"Thank you, Miss Rankin," Nicholas said. "You've got one too, Danny."

"Huh? Oh," Danny said, as Nicholas bandaged a wound on the underside of his right forearm, where it was less noticeable than Nicholas' had been. "Thanks, Chief."

Meanwhile, Michael had donned his gloves and mask and was stroking Mary's forehead soothingly. Mary looked up at the three of them and smiled through her pain.

"You've done so much for me," she whispered. "I don't deserve it, you know."

"Hey, don't say that," Danny said gently. "This _is_ the Community That Cares."

**2240 hrs**

"Push!" Danny shouted enthusiastically. "Push, Mary!"

"I think you're overdoing it a bit, Constable," Nicholas said.

"After the night I've had, I don't care," Mary gasped.

Michael was still stroking her brow. He began a low, wordless crooning. After a few moments, he broke off and spoke to her – or someone did.

"Don't worry, dear," Michael's Mum said aloud, overcoming her shyness. "Everything's going to be all right."

**2245 hrs**

"Hey, I just remembered what to do after cuttin' the cord!" Danny said over Mary's groans and gasps. "We help deliver the placenta. We'll have to wrap it up so they can look at it at hospital. It was on the Sergeant's exam."

Nicholas was briefly startled out of his concentration. "You already _took_ the Sergeant's exam, Constable?" he asked.

"Well, yeah, kind of..."

"Why didn't you notify me?"

"Like I said, I wanted it to be a surprise," Danny said sheepishly.

"And did you pass?"

Danny grinned self-consciously.

"It was easy, Chief – all the questions were about Sandford!"

**2250 hrs**

The carollers on the moat were now singing an ancient hymn of praise, one so old that its true melody had been lost:

_I sing of a maiden__  
That is makéles;  
King of all kings  
To her son she ches._

"I can see the head!" Danny shouted.

_He came all so still__  
Where his mother was,  
As dew in April  
That falleth on the grass._

"Push, Mary!" Nicholas urged. "Just a few more!"

_He came all so still__  
To his mother's bowr,  
As dew in April  
That falleth on the flower._

"You can do it!" Michael's sister said.

_He came all so still__  
Where his mother lay..._

"Nearly there, love," Michael's Mum said. "Nearly there."

_As dew in April  
That falleth on the spray._

Mary screamed, long and piercingly.

_Mother and maiden  
Was never none but she..._

"Coming now!" Michael said.

_Well may such a lady  
Godés mother be._

"Waah!" said the baby. "Wah wah waaah!"

_Rev. Stewart was right_, Nicholas thought as he caught and held the baby in his gloved hands. _There __**is**__ only one solution to the equation of the universe._

"It's a boy," he said.

**2255 hrs**

"He's perfect," Mary said, her eyes shining with tears. "Just perfect."

"So, what are you going to name him?" Danny asked.

"I never even thought about it," Mary said wearily. "Any ideas?"

"Nicholas?" Danny suggested.

"How about Daniel?" Nicholas put in.

Mary turned to the tallest of the three men and smiled up at him.

"He calls you Lurch," she said, indicating Danny with a tilt of her head as her arms clasped her newborn son. "That's not your name. What's your real name?"

"Michael," Michael said in his deep voice.

Mary turned back to the baby and kissed him.

"Happy birthday, Michael," she said. "And Merry Christmas."

**VIII. Second Shoe**

**2300 hrs**

As the charity collectors Rev. Stewart had summoned to the village entered the church with their evening's takings, an observant person might have noticed that they were not twenty but twenty-one. One Santa lingered in the semi-darkness of the church while the others entered the vestry to count their money and deposit it in the safe.

Albert Bass fumed inwardly. His revenge had come so close to being accomplished! If only he had not been distracted by the politician's unsavoury activities in the lay-by! If Angel had been alone when he came charging to the rescue, he would have changed his plan and stabbed him then and there, leaving the girl's present for later.

Now hussy, copper and pervert were all lost to him for the moment. That horrible apparition behind Angel – a face and form to haunt one's nightmares, and terrify even a man who rode an open sleigh on the wings of the storm.

But Albert Bass did not give up. He would have his vengeance on Nicholas Angel before this night was out. As ever, the naughty would receive their just deserts.

He looked around for anything potentially useful, and saw it almost immediately. A teenage boy knelt in a pew near the rear of the church with his back to Albert, quietly praying. The service would not start for another hour, and for the moment no one else was in the church.

Albert quickly looked about for a weapon – not fatal, but immobilising. Having found what he needed, he held it behind his back and moved stealthily toward the boy.

"...And for my granddad," Gabriel Weaver was saying softly. "I know he was a bastard, but he took me fishing once."

Albert silently whipped out the candlestick from behind his back and clubbed the oblivious boy over the head with it. A moment later, he was dragging Gabriel by his heels out the west door of the church. No one saw them go.

END OF PART SEVEN


	8. Crisis Point

**Christmas Fuzz**

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of _Hot Fuzz_ and the film's epilogue. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of _Hot Fuzz_.

**Part ****Eight: Crisis Point**

"It's a festival of violence! Humans, they say, only survive the season depending on whether they've been good or bad. It's barbaric!"

Mr. Copper, _Doctor Who: Voyage of the Damned_ (written by Russell T. Davies)

**I. ****Hostage Holder**

**24****th**** December 2006, 2305 hrs**

As the ambulance sped through Sandford toward Buford Abbey Hospital, Mary spoke up from the back.

"Chief Inspector Angel?" she said. "Do you think we could stop at the church again, so I can give thanks for the baby?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Miss Rankin," Nicholas called back to her from the driver's compartment. "You really need to be seen by medical personnel."

"Aw, c'mon, Chief," Danny said. "_I_ think it's a good idea. Anyway, she's fine now."

"What do you think, Mr. Armstrong?" Nicholas asked. "Do you think we should stop at the church?"

"Yarp," said Michael, still hovering next to Mary and his namesake.

"In that case," Nicholas said, "I appear to be outvoted."

**2307 hrs**

Nicholas parked the ambulance outside the church, and he and Danny went around to the back and helped Mary out. She stood on her feet somewhat weakly, with one arm around Danny's shoulders and the other holding the baby. Michael, who would have been rather too tall to help her walk, hovered protectively behind her.

They were halfway to the doors of the church, walking between trees decorated for Christmas with white lights and large coloured balls, when Nicholas' mobile phone rang.

"Hey, maybe it's your ex!" Danny suggested, grinning. Nicholas, however, was slightly irritated. Since the phone was his personal mobile, he used it for police business only when necessary, but on this occasion he wanted to keep the line clear. He pulled the phone from his belt and checked the caller ID. It read "Gabriel".

Nicholas answered the call.

"Gabriel," he said, "I'm going to have to ask you to get off the line for the moment. I'm currently dealing with an emergency situation, and I may need to use this phone for police business –"

"Oh, but this _is_ police business, Chief Inspector Angel," the harsh voice on the other end said.

A cold chill ran down Nicholas' back.

**2308 hrs**

Albert Bass stood on the roof of the church tower, holding his knife to the neck of Gabriel Weaver. The boy stood in front of him, his hands bound behind his back with electrical tape from the roll Albert had found in his capacious pockets. Another piece of tape covered the struggling boy's mouth.

"I found a young citizen of your village praying in the church, Chief Inspector," Albert said sociably into Gabriel's mobile phone. "An admirable activity for Christmas Eve. I thought he would like to see me give you your present. I wondered, though, how to get in touch with you. Imagine how pleased I was when he attempted to call you for help, and I discovered that he had your mobile number in his directory!"

Albert paused, but for a long moment heard only a wary silence. Then Angel spoke.

"What is it you want, Mr. Bass?"

Albert flinched.

"That is not my name!" he snapped into the phone, his usual mocking calm replaced by an explosion of suppressed rage. "I am Father Christmas, Santa Claus, Père Noël, Grandfather Frost! I see you when you're sleeping, and I know when you're awake!"

"Well, I'm awake now, Mr. – Father Christmas," Angel replied calmly. "Tell me what you want."

Albert regained his composure.

"Why, merely to wish you Merry Christmas and give you your present in person," he said jovially. "The young man and I will await you atop the tower of the church. Oh, and it would be most unwise for anyone to accompany you. Isn't that right, my lad?" He placed the phone to Gabriel's bound mouth.

"Mmf! Mm mmmf!" Gabriel said.

"Please don't leave us waiting long, Chief Inspector," Albert said into the phone again. "My knife is again unsheathed, and is presently located uncomfortably close to your young friend's carotid artery. Once again, I feel the need to inflict a wound."

He pressed the "END" button.

**II. Fond Farewell**

**2310 hrs**

Nicholas slowly lowered the phone to his side, wearing a dazed expression Danny had seldom seen on him.

"He's holding Gabriel Weaver hostage," he said, as though in a dream. "He wants me to offer myself in exchange for him."

"Oh, no!" Mary said, the hand not holding the baby flying to her mouth. "Who's Gabriel Weaver?"

"One of our local hoodies," Danny explained. "Sings in the church choir."

"Oh." Mary frowned. "You're not going, are you, Inspector Angel?"

"I'm not sure that I have any choice, Miss Rankin," Nicholas said gently. "The young man is in imminent danger."

"Where exactly is Santa?" Danny asked.

"Up there," Nicholas said, gazing up at the top of the tower.

"Then let's get 'im!" Danny started toward the door to the tower stairs. Nicholas laid a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.

"No, Danny. Not this time. He said he would kill Gabriel if anyone came with me."

"What a –"

"Stay here with Miss Rankin and the baby, Constable. You, too, Michael."

"But –" Danny began.

"That's an order, Danny!" Nicholas snapped.

He turned away, slowly walking toward the arched doorway to the tower stairs, trying to forget the expression of hurt he had seen on Danny's face. Yet as he reached the door, his human weakness made him turn back. Time was unquestionably of the essence, but he was going into a potentially deeply hazardous situation, and so much remained unsaid.

"Danny," Nicholas said urgently, "I've never told you how much it meant –"

"Aw, don't worry about it," Danny said. "It was only ₤33.99."

An unaccustomed prickling sensation came into Angel's eyes. He raised his hand to his head, palm out, and saluted Danny. Then, without waiting to see the salute returned, he dashed up the stairs two at a time.

In the silence that followed, Mary Rankin cleared her throat.

"We're not _really_ letting him go up there alone, are we?" she whispered.

"Narp," Michael replied.

"Of course not," Danny said indignantly. "I'll go after him in a minute. This is what always happens: the hero confronts the killer and gets 'im to talk, and then his buddy comes along and rescues him."

"Want to come," Michael said.

"Me, too," Mary chimed in.

"Are you sure?" Danny asked. "You've already had quite a night."

"That's just it, Constable," Mary explained. "I've been so terrified by that fake Santa, I don't think I'll ever get over it unless I can confront him again."

"But he might try to kill you, too," Danny said.

To his surprise, Mary smiled.

"I don't think so," she said. "He said he couldn't kill me before because my baby hadn't been naughty yet."

"But you're not pregnant anymore," Danny pointed out, glancing down at Mary's belly.

"I know that," the girl replied. "But Santa doesn't."

She gazed meaningfully at the large round Christmas ornaments on the trees near the church. Michael's eyes gleamed with understanding. For a long moment Danny looked back and forth between Mary and the ornaments, confused.

"Oh," he finally said. "Oh, I see. But what about little Michael?"

"I think I know just the place," Mary said.

**2315 hrs**

And so, a few minutes later, worshippers arriving early for the midnight service were startled to discover the manger of the church's Christmas crib occupied, not by a life-size figure of the infant Jesus, but by a living, calmly sleeping baby. Taped to the manger with a plastic bandage was a hastily scrawled message on a page torn from a police-issue notebook: "HANDS OFF," it read. "MUM BACK SOON." Incongruously located beneath this message were the cartoon figures of a police constable and a robber, the former levelling his gun at the latter.

And as Danny, Mary and Michael hurried through the door to the tower stairs, Mary suddenly sank back against Michael with a gasp.

"I'm sorry," she said, clutching the large Christmas ball to keep it in place under her shirt. "I feel weak, all of a sudden. But we still have to go."

"Shouldn't you –" Danny began, but was stopped by the determined look in Mary's eyes.

"Carry you?" Michael offered.

"No, I'll carry her, Lurch," Danny said. "I _am_ the policeman officer, after all."

And thus it was that Danny Butterman carried a (seemingly) pregnant woman up a flight of stairs, while Mr. Laws, the organist, pounded out the "Carol of the Bells" in the church below.

**III. Final Death**

**2313 hrs**

Nicholas Angel cautiously emerged onto the roof of the church tower, where he had not stood since the day Tim Messenger was murdered, almost eight months earlier. He stepped carefully, knowing that the roof was still in poor repair and could collapse under a careless footfall. Standing near the opposite edge of the square roof was Albert Bass, holding a knife to the throat of the bound and gagged Gabriel Weaver.

"Hello, Chief Inspector Angel," Albert greeted him. "How's the hand?"

"Not stiff anymore," Nicholas replied. "I'm here, Santa. You've got what you wanted. Let the boy go."

Albert laughed.

"I would gladly comply, Chief Inspector, were it not for the fact that this young man has been naughty," he said. "Not as naughty as a copper who puts Santa Claus in an asylum, but naughty nonetheless. Earlier this evening I heard him, while at prayer, referring to his own grandfather as a 'bastard'."

Involuntarily Angel's mind flashed back seven months to his final encounter with Tom Weaver. The shotgun was pointed at him. Then Danny was flying sideways through the air, as though trying to make a catch on the rugby pitch. _He doesn't have his body armour on, only his uniform shirt, oh God, no, this can't be happening –_

Nicholas forcibly brought himself back to the present.

"I think that was understandable," he said.

"But such lack of respect for his elders!" Albert waved the knife back and forth in front of the boy's throat. "Didn't he know he could get coal in his stocking? Or worse?"

Nicholas began to edge forward toward Albert.

"I think you should be more forgiving toward young Joseph, Santa," Nicholas said. Gabriel's eyes widened in confusion, but he could, of course, say nothing. "Surely, from your point of view, what I did is far worse."

"True," Albert said angrily, tightening his grip on Gabriel's arms. "Slapping handcuffs on me, charging me with assault and battery on a police officer – what insane poppycock! I am Father Christmas! I am above the law!"

"Let the boy go," Nicholas said, taking a step closer. "Then you can give me whatever present you like."

"Oh, you will get your present, Chief Inspector Angel," Albert said, moving the knife closer to the teenager's neck. "But not until I give young Joseph his."

And that was where Albert made his fatal mistake. Nicholas smiled tightly.

"How can you?" he asked. "You're not Father Christmas." He was taking a great risk, and he knew it, but he needed to rattle Albert's concentration.

"What do you mean?" Albert asked, his eyes narrowing. "I thought we already settled this."

"If you're Father Christmas, you know every child in the world, and keep a complete record of their major and minor malfeasances. Isn't that correct?" Nicholas took another careful step closer.

"As you know, Chief Inspector, I make a 'Naughty' list and a 'Nice' list. You and young Joseph are definitely on the former."

"I may be, but Joseph is not," Nicholas said, moving closer still.

"And what makes you say that? Have you _seen_ my list?" Albert asked mockingly. "I have it stored on the central server of my computer system at the North Pole, triple-password-protected!"

"'Joseph' can't be on your list, because his name isn't 'Joseph'," Nicholas explained calmly. He was now only an arm's length away from the madman in front of him. "I called him that, and you repeated it. The real Santa Claus would know the young man's name without my telling him. You're _not_ Santa Claus. You are Albert Bass, a 45-year-old video importer from Crouch End, and you are, I regret to say, quite insane."

Overcome with rage, Albert involuntarily raised his arms toward Nicholas, swinging the knife away from Gabriel's throat. In an instant the teenager had ducked and rolled away from him, barely stopping himself from tumbling off the edge of the roof.

"Run, Gabriel!" Nicholas shouted, drawing his baton as Albert launched himself at him. An instant later, Angel's hand was on Albert's wrist and they were grappling for control of the knife. Gabriel hurried to the top of the stairs, but turned back and froze in terror, unable to move.

Nicholas and Albert fought for less than a minute, but it seemed to Nicholas like hours. Albert was nearly ten years older, shorter and seemingly less fit, but his insanity and desire for revenge gave him surprising strength and viciousness. As they fought, random images flashed into Nicholas' mind: Janine, his ex, elven-fair, stepping out of the shower at their flat. Danny, opening the doors of his DVD cabinet, unveiling a new world Nicholas had only just begun to explore. His mum on the day of his First Holy Communion, placing the shiny new St. Christopher medal around his neck. He could hear her voice: "This will keep you safe –"

His left hand still on the knife, Nicholas dropped the baton from his right hand and grabbed the St. Christopher medal from his neck, jabbing the bright disk of metal into Albert's left eye, only inches from his own. This totally unexpected manoeuvre was highly effective. Albert fell back from Nicholas' grip, still holding the knife but clutching his eye in pain with the other hand.

"Freeze, Santa!" Danny shouted, bursting onto the roof, accompanied by Michael Armstrong and – to Nicholas' surprise and dismay – Mary Rankin. Gabriel, still crouched near the stairs, fell back into Danny's shadow as the plump officer waved his baton threateningly toward Albert Bass.

Albert, hunched over in pain but still brandishing the knife, glared up at him.

"Ah, the redoubtable Constable Butterman," he said with some of his former insouciance. "I see you survived your brush with death back in May."

"You better believe it," Danny said grimly.

"I read about your exploits online in my workshop. Your father was rather naughty this year, I believe."

Danny stiffened, but spoke calmly.

"I know," he said. "But I wasn't."

"Oh, no," Albert said mockingly. "You were not naughty. You were merely loyal, loyal unto death, to Nick Angel, the man who sent Santa to the funny farm. 'Nick Angel' – what a fine name that is. It has the perfect balance of evil and good, doesn't it?"

"It's not 'Nick' Angel," Danny said indignantly. "It's 'Nicholas' Angel."

"Ah, but that is one of my names, also," Albert said. "And now jolly old St. Nick will give you all your Christmas presents."

He advanced on them with the knife. Nicholas, still closest to him, slowly stepped backwards.

"I feel the need..." Albert murmured, licking his lips.

"The need for speed?" Danny asked, puzzled.

Albert laughed loudly.

"No, no, my good man," he said. "The need to inflict a wound!"

"I don't think so," Mary said. "We're going to stop you."

"Why?" Albert asked scornfully. "Because the power of Christ compels you?"

"Yes, actually," Mary said.

"Who are you to talk?" Albert said mockingly, taking a step closer to them. "You're nothing but an outcast, my girl. You're not even really part of the world."

"God put her in for a reason," Danny retorted.

"Yes," Mary agreed. "To do _this_."

In one fluid motion, she pulled the large Christmas ornament out from under her shirt, poised it on her fists and spiked it through the air toward Albert. Momentarily bemused, Albert gazed up at the shining ball as it arced toward him, seemingly in slow motion, and impacted his head with a sickening crack. Albert slowly crumpled to the roof of the tower, the broken ornament lying next to him.

"Nice shot," Michael said slowly.

"Thanks," Mary answered. "I was captain of the girls' football team at school."

Danny ran across to Nicholas, more carelessly than was probably wise on the crumbling roof.

"You all right, Chief?" he asked. "What's that red on your shirt?"

"Cranberry juice."

"Oh. Right."

The sound of sobbing came from behind them. Turning, the two officers saw that Mary had removed the tape from Gabriel's mouth and was unbinding his hands.

"Granddad," Gabriel sobbed. "How could he do it? He was as bad as Santa. How could anyone do the things he did?"

"I think I know how you feel," Danny said sadly.

"We're not angels, Gabriel," Nicholas said. "We're animals."

"But yur an Angel," Michael said simply. Nicholas sighed.

Gabriel stood, blinking the tears back, and nodded his thanks to the others.

"I have to go now," he said, "or Mr. Laws really will kill me."

A moment later he was gone, running down the stairs.

"Well, that's that," Mary said, smiling slightly.

"Danny," Nicholas said, "what I tried to say before... it wasn't about the pedal car."

"Oh," Danny said, disappointed. "I thought you liked it."

"I do!" Nicholas said hastily. "It's just that... I took a life once, Danny. Now, with your help and Mr. Armstrong's, I've brought one into the world..."

He took a deep breath and continued.

"But I wouldn't be here if you hadn't saved my life, nearly at the cost of your own. And I've never thanked you for that, not properly."

Nicholas' eyes prickled again.

"Aw, come on, man. It was somethin' I had to do. You'd have done the same for me. Besides," Danny added, a mischievous gleam in his eye, "if you _had_ bought it, who'd've done all the paperwork?"

Nicholas felt like hugging him. But he had hugged him when he picked him up from Flint House. They were heterosexual British police officers; one hug a year was enough. Well, maybe one a month...

There was a sudden roar from behind them. Turning, Nicholas saw that Albert Bass had stood up and was running toward them, his head still bleeding, the knife still in his hand.

_Oh no, not again_, Angel thought.

"No!" Danny shouted, jumping in front of Mary.

"No!" Nicholas shouted, jumping in front of Danny.

"Narp!" Michael shouted, jumping in front of Nicholas.

Albert reached Michael. They grappled together for a moment. Nicholas saw the knife penetrate Michael's right hand. The insane Santa pulled it out again and struggled, trying to reach Michael's heart.

Michael's face contorted with pain. He opened his mouth as though to scream, but no sound came out. With a great effort he pushed Albert back to arms' length. Albert still struggled, flailing with the knife. Nicholas grabbed his baton from where it had fallen and took a step towards the combatants.

Then Michael's mother spoke.

"You're... not... hurting... Michael!" she grunted.

And with one burst of astonishing strength, Violet Armstrong threw Albert Bass toward the side of the roof. He teetered on the brink for a moment and might have saved himself, but the crumbling stonework gave way, and he plummeted over the edge.

Slowly, Nicholas, Danny and Mary walked to the edge and looked down. Nicholas was vaguely surprised that Albert was not impaled on something. He merely lay before the doors of the church, his head and limbs at odd angles, quite still.

"Shame to happen on Christmas Eve, innit?" Danny said.

"I know it was self-defence, Michael," Nicholas said, reaching upwards and laying a hand on the tall man's shoulder. Michael was still breathing heavily. Nicholas looked at his hand, which was bleeding quite freely.

"It's the single most painful experience of your life, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yarp."

Danny gave his handkerchief to Michael, who slowly wrapped it around his hand, as though he were treating the wound of his child or his sister.

As the four of them walked back towards the stairs, Danny murmured, "Funny thing, though..."

"What's that?" Nicholas asked.

"Never knew Santa had a Kiwi accent."

**2350 hrs**

"'Night, Michael," Mary said.

"'Night, Michael," Michael Armstrong replied, gazing fondly at the baby in her arms.

The doors closed, and the ambulance pulled away, its siren wailing, carrying Mary and her baby to hospital. A second ambulance, its siren silent, its lights dark, carried Albert Bass to the morgue. Yet another ambulance had been dispatched to pick up the body of Paul Balsam, the ambulance technicians' fallen colleague.

"I'm sorry this happened on Christmas Eve, Rev. Stewart," Nicholas said to the vicar.

"Such a tragedy," the young man said, pushing his glasses back nervously. "And yet perhaps he will be better off. His life must have been a sad story."

Nicholas glanced over at Michael, his hand bandaged, happily playing with a Christmas bell hanging from the door of the church. He thought of Mary, smiling at the baby as the ambulance doors closed on them.

"With respect, Reverend, sad stories don't always have sad endings."

"Of course not," the vicar agreed.

"Will you still be able to hold your midnight service, Reverend? The emergency workers seem to be finished here."

"I expect so." Rev. Stewart paused for a moment. "Inspector Angel, after your heroic service to the people of Sandford tonight, I would be even more honoured if you would still deliver the sermon."

Nicholas winced.

"I'm terribly sorry, Rev. Stewart, but after the events of this evening there will be quite a lot of paperwork to do back at the station."

Danny tapped him on the shoulder.

"Copier's still broken," he said.

Nicholas winced again.

"In that case, Reverend, I'd love to."

END OF PART EIGHT


	9. Agnostic Sermon

**Christmas Fuzz**

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of _Hot Fuzz_ and the film's epilogue. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of _Hot Fuzz_. The "_Star Trek_ book" to which Sergeant Turner refers is _The Kobayashi Maru_ by Julia Ecklar. The "Gloucestershire Wassail" is a traditional English carol.

**Part ****Nine: Agnostic Sermon**

"No one would choose to live without friends, even if he had all other goods."

Aristotle, _Nicomachean Ethics_ (translated by Martin Ostwald)

**I. ****Midnight Service**

**25****th**** December 2006, 0001 hrs**

As the Christmas service began, Nicholas Angel glanced around the church and was surprised by the number of people there whom he had come to know. He had sometimes ruefully thought that most of the people he had met on first arriving in Sandford were now either dead or in prison. That might be true, but there were his police officers, all of whom – even Saxon – had managed to stagger into the church despite the after-effects of their Christmas party earlier in the evening. _It seems like months ago now_, Nicholas thought. Only messy-haired Sergeant Turner was not there, still back at the station manning the switchboard in case anything else happened on this surprisingly memorable Christmas Eve.

There was Janet Barker, cradling Roger, one of her eight-month-old twins; the other twin, Martin, dozed peacefully on his father's chest. There was Peter Ian Staker, who, thankfully, had not brought the Castle swan with him to the midnight service. There was Brian Libby, the paperboy, looking surprisingly chipper for having found two dead bodies in the lay-by earlier that year. And there was Vicki, the chambermaid from the Swan Hotel.

There was Andy Cartwright's father, the local apple and raspberry merchant, who had clapped his son on the shoulder as he walked past his pew; Detective Cartwright had blinked woozily at him in return. There was Danny's Auntie Jackie, who would perhaps never realise that she had spoken with Albert Bass at the Crown on the night he learned of Mr. Taylor's naughtiness; she had given Danny a friendly nod as he passed her on the way in. Even Danny's Cousin Max from Stockbridge was there.

And there were Waris, the barman at the Crown, and the couple who ran the new Vietnamese restaurant, and many other new residents who had moved to Sandford after the NWA's reign of terror had ended, coming together with long-time residents to take part in an old and cherished tradition. And sitting next to Nicholas and Danny was Michael Armstrong, gazing around the church at the lights and decorations with the delighted curiosity of a child.

Astonishingly, Gabriel Weaver was actually in his seat in the choir as the service began. Even more astonishingly, Mr. Laws pointed to him to sing the solo first verse of "Once In Royal David's City". Nicholas held his breath, expecting the boy's voice to crack with nervousness, but he performed the solo with hardly a quaver.

"The stork dances," Sergeant Turner murmured in the pew behind Angel.

"Excuse me, Sergeant?" Nicholas whispered back to him.

"Don't you know why the stork stands on one leg?" Sergeant Turner whispered. "It's afraid it'll fall over if it uses both legs. But sometimes, if it does, it can dance. Read it in a _Star Trek_ book."

Nicholas glanced over at Michael Armstrong, happily bobbing his head in time with the music, and silently agreed.

**0030 hrs**

"Then here's to the maid in the lily-white smock,  
Who tripped to the door and slipped back the lock!  
Who tripped to the door and pulled back the pin,  
For to let these jolly wassailers in."

"You're on, Chief," Danny whispered as the carol ended.

Nicholas made his way up to the pulpit, ruefully reflecting that, with everything else going on, he had given no thought whatsoever to what he should say. He pulled his uniform jacket straight, wishing he had had time to change into a clean shirt. He climbed the steps and turned to face the people of the village – his village, now. Not knowing what to say, he spoke the words that came to him.

"I was uncertain about accepting this invitation," he began, "because I am uncertain about my religious beliefs. Someone once called me an agnostic, and although I was not quite comfortable with that label, it may be as good as any. Certainly I am aware that no one knows the exact date on which Jesus was born, and that the winter is an especially unlikely season, given the biblical description of lambs being pastured in the fields at the time.

"But is the essence of Christmas the celebration of the precise date of birth of a prophet, or something more? I don't think most people would say so. The essence of Christmas is light in the darkness, music in silence, friendship in loneliness."

"Never knew he was such a poet," Sergeant Fisher whispered.

"More specifically, the essence of Christmas is the Incarnation – the self-sacrifice of God, laying aside his godhood to become human, and die for humans. And about this, also, I have long been uncertain. When Rev. Stewart invited me to speak tonight, I told him that some of the things I have seen as a police officer made me unsure that humanity deserved the Incarnation."

"Quite a downer, that," Doris Thatcher observed.

"But Rev. Stewart had an answer for me. He said that the whole point of such a gift is that it _is_ undeserved, and yet freely given. And I think he was right. How can we ever say we deserve the good things other people do for us?"

"Let 'lone what dogs do," Bob Walker mumbled, scratching Saxon between the ears.

"If someone saves their last Cornetto for you, you don't _deserve_ it. If someone offers to water your peace lily while you're away, you don't _deserve_ that, either."

Nicholas looked directly at Danny.

"And if someone is willing to die for you..."

Nicholas glanced down again.

"As the man whose birth we celebrate tonight is reported to have said, 'Greater love hath no man than this, to lay down his life for a friend.' I think most of us would agree with that. I think most of our ideas of right and wrong come from that man, whether we think he was God or not."

Nicholas paused.

"Both Rev. Stewart and one of my colleagues expressed the hope that I would bring a unique perspective to this sermon because I'm a police officer. Can I do that? I don't know. I once told Rev. Stewart's predecessor that I might not be a man of God, but that I knew right and I knew wrong. I think that, as police officers, it's our duty to defend goodness, defend the light and joy of Christmas, and work for peace and justice in this land, not just this day but every day."

Nicholas gazed out at his fellow officers.

"And I believe – more firmly than I believe anything else – that men and women will always be found who are willing to defend those things, from now until the world's end."

Nicholas was silent for a moment, then climbed down from the pulpit and returned to his seat.

"Good job, Chief," Danny whispered.

"Not bad," Andy Wainwright said. "But I was hoping you'd talk about girls."

"Or guns," Andy Cartwright suggested.

Mr. Laws struck up Beethoven's _Ode to Joy_ on the organ, and the choir and people began to sing. Both Danny and Michael sang the hymn with great enthusiasm. Nicholas frowned in puzzlement. Although it was difficult to hear over the rest of the congregation, it sounded very much as though Michael were singing in three voices at once.

**II. Exit Music**

**0112 hrs**

"Good speech, Chief," Sergeant Turner said as the congregation filed out of the church. The other officers all murmured their agreement.

"So, what happened to Santa?" Doris Thatcher asked. "Is he still about?"

"He fell off the roof, actually," Nicholas said.

"Oh, well. Occupational hazard, I expect," Doris said dismissively.

"Yarp," Michael agreed, nodding.

"Sorry you couldn't be with your family tonight, Chief," Wainwright said.

"Yeah. Shame you were stuck with us," Cartwright added.

For once, Nicholas knew they were not being sarcastic. He smiled.

"Who was it who said friends are the family of the twenty-first century?" Nicholas wondered aloud.

"Dunno. David Schwimmer?" Sergeant Fisher suggested.

Everyone laughed at that as they said their good-nights.

**III. Silent Night**

**0130 hrs**

A light snow was again falling on Sandford as Danny and Nicholas said good-night to Michael Armstrong.

"Are you going to be all right, Mr. Armstrong?" Nicholas asked. "You're sure you don't want to go to hospital?"

"Yarp," Michael answered. "Yarp."

"Do you know how to change the bandage?"

"Yarp."

"That's good. Merry Christmas, Michael," Danny said.

"Yarp."

Michael turned off toward his flat on Summer Street, while the two police officers proceeded toward Danny's flat. Nicholas felt too tired to go all the way to his cottage on Spencer Hill.

"Do you s'pose further charges should be brought against Skinner and my dad?" Danny asked when the tall man was out of earshot. "For killin' Michael's mum and sister, I mean."

"I don't think that's necessary," Nicholas said. "Mr. Armstrong might not impress a jury as a reliable witness. In any case, he doesn't even realise his mother and sister are dead. Perhaps it's better that way."

"Yeah," Danny said. "I think you're right. But what if there's a danger someday of Skinner bein' released?"

From the look in his eyes, Nicholas thought Danny was not really thinking of Skinner.

"We'll deal with that when and if it happens, Danny," Nicholas said. "There is no statute of limitations on murder. But I don't think Skinner and the others will be released for a long, long time."

Danny's expression now was sad, but also relieved. He slowly began to hum the _Ode to Joy_ as they walked, much more softly than on the day he was released from Flint House. Nicholas waited for him to finish the tune, and then spoke again.

"I was proud of your willingness to help Miss Rankin give birth when you knew she was HIV-positive, Sergeant Butterman," Nicholas said, a twinkle in his eye.

"That's what we do, innit? Help people?"

Danny marched onwards, still humming. Nicholas cleared his throat, slightly annoyed.

"So, what movie shall we watch tonight, Sergeant Butterman?"

"Oh, I dunno. _Die 'ard_, maybe?"

Nicholas cleared his throat again.

"Part 1 or Part 2, Sergeant Butterman?"

"Like I said, Chief, I dunno. And why do you keep callin' me 'Sergeant Butterman'? I'm not a sergeant yet."

"Oh, yes you are, Danny."

Danny spun round, incredulous realisation slowly spreading across his broad features. Nicholas was grinning more broadly than he could ever remember doing in his life, but it felt good.

"Or you will be, as soon as I put in the promotion paperwork. Merry Christmas, Sergeant Butterman!"

Danny blinked a few times. Then he smiled.

"Guess I'll have to make sure the copier gets fixed, then," he said. "Otherwise I'll still be a constable New Year's Eve, and have to run in all the drunk drivers."

Nicholas clapped his friend on the back, laughing joyfully.

"What's so funny?" Danny asked, a puzzled look on his face. Nicholas laughed even harder.

"Nothing, Danny. Everything. Merry Christmas, Sandford, Gloucestershire!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Why did you do that?" Danny asked.

"I don't know, Danny. It was something I had to do."

Danny smiled again.

"_Die 'ard_ 1 _and_ 2?" he asked.

"Absolutely."

THE END


End file.
